He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother
by Lucky Gun
Summary: Dean breaks, shatters into a thousand pieces, and falls to the ground. Sam and Cas try to pick up the pieces and end up cutting themselves in the process. Dark, angsty, hurt/comfort, brotherly love. *COMPLETE* 2012 Author's Note Convention Award Winner!
1. Chapter 1

Title: He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother: Chapter One

Author: Lucky Gun

Disclaimer: Own nothing except for the story concept. All characters and devices within are owned by Eric Kripke. Think it's cause he's so awesome? I think it's cause he's so awesome.

Summary: Dean breaks, shatters into a thousand pieces, and falls to the ground. Sam and Cas try to pick up the pieces and end up cutting themselves in the process.

A/N: References to a Colt pistol are Dean's 1911 Colt, not Samuel Colt's gun. FYI. :) Also, many thanks to my best friend and awesome beta reader SpenChester! I love you like Dean loves pie.:D

* * *

It had been a long time coming and the conditions were just too well put together. In a perfect storm of circumstances, Sam and Dean found themselves on opposite sides of the board. Dean was dogged by sleeplessness and horror, and Sam was consumed by his own blood lust. Both were still trying to get used to certain truths they'd discovered about the other, and trust was a commodity worth more every passing day. With all they'd been through, things were bound to come to a head.

They were hidden away from the world but unable to hide from each other; the heavily falling snow outside the travel lodge they'd picked didn't distract their attention, even as the icy conditions outside matched the frigid temperatures of their voices. Jagged mountain peaks and winter's midnight were the only observers to the family meltdown.

Inside the wooden lodge, it would have been cheery but for the argument occurring in its walls. Typical western decorations of fur and paintings were visible on every wall, and there was a false fireplace in the wall near the door, the heating unit for the room nestled in its cavern. The plush red carpet belied the cheap price of the room, and though it was small, it was clean and smelt of evergreen.

Of course, the brothers barely noticed any of that. They'd rolled into town later than they'd intended after getting stuck behind a plow truck, tempers flaring as they disagreed on everything from travel routes and restaurants to credit card usage and jobs. They eventually found themselves in the northern part of Colorado; the Impala gave up her transmission just as they got to the parking lot of a lodge in the random town the road had deposited them in. The three hours after they'd arrived consisted of Dean rolling around underneath the Chevy in the oily snow while Sam stood nearby and argued that multiple disappearances around the town were supernatural and not related to the unusually severe winter the area was experiencing.

Close to eleven, Dean had declared the transmission fixed and Sam had declared a job found. Immediately disagreeing, the older hunter had pointed out flaws he found in his little brother's argument, shouting his reasons over the spray of a scalding hot shower. Dressed again and standing across from his brother in the hotel room that was suddenly too close, Dean tried to ignore the fact that Sam's hands were shaking like a junkie's. Likewise, Sam was trying to forget watching Dean struggle with the Impala's engine, fingers numbed from the cold. The fires in their eyes seemed to dim simultaneously as they both silently agreed to disagree. Then Sam muttered that he needed to get ahold of Ruby at the same time Dean said he was heading out for a night on the town, and their world erupted into a shock of thrown words and accusations.

Brothers weren't supposed to fight. Not like this. Sure, they'd had their knock-down, drag-out fights before, but those were just fights, nothing more. This was something different. This was primal and primitive. Every word was laced with pain and fear and exhaustion. Between every "screw you" and "bite me" there was a pause heavy enough to suffocate, and every retort cut like a blade. Even dozens of minutes into the fight, emotions still ran at frighteningly high levels.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Dean? You just don't care about stopping the Apocalypse anymore, is that it? Big bad Dean Winchester is finally giving up?"

Sam's eyes flashed as he bit out the words angrily, his gaze tracking the features of his brother as they screamed at each other across the room. Beneath the dark jeans and warm hoodie he wore, every muscle in his body was trembling with the force of the emotion that tore through him, intensifying as he saw his brother's face darken with rage.

"I want _one_ night, Sam! One night to forget that the world is crumbling down around us! One night to ignore the fact that my brother has chosen a demon bitch over me! I want one night! Why the hell does that piss you off so much?" Dean demanded, his voice breaking, almost unnoticed, as he saw the signs of withdrawal in his brother.

For more reasons than one, Dean was doing his best to keep himself as distant from Sam as possible; the sharp signs of chemical retraction in his brother's posture was why Dean had dressed for leaving in his blue jeans, long sleeve shirt, button down over shirt, and leather jacket. That, and they hadn't fought so bad in as long as memory existed, and he was so turned around, so beleaguered by the exchange, he swore he could feel the ground shifting beneath his feet.

At his brother's words, Sam whirled and kicked a helpless nightstand, ignoring it as it wobbled, tipped, and fell, a small moose-shaped ceramic lamp tumbling to the ground and shattering. The mess caught his eye for a second; why did those broken shards remind him so much of his brother? The thought flitted away before he could analyze it, and he turned around again. His lips pressed into a thin line as he thought of Ruby, any shame he felt for his actions overpowered by the red-hot rage that coursed through him.

"Oh, so you want to forget? You want to just waltz into the arms of the whore of the night with a Trojan in one hand and a bottle in the other? You think that's going to give you some magical reprieve from the Apocalypse that _you_ started?" he snarled, no brain-mouth filters working.

As soon as the words left his mouth, Sam knew he'd gone too far. But he lifted his head and squared his jaw. Dean thought Sam had chosen Ruby over him? Fine. He'd remind him why he'd had to make that choice. On the other side of the hotel room, the décor fell to the wayside of observation. Instead, Sam watched as Dean's face drained of color, cold sweat breaking out above his lips. His eyes darted to the side and his fists clenched tight. There was an aura of loss around him, and his brother knew that Dean was always going to blame himself for his weakness. But Dean's words were biting as deep as his own, so Sam threw every sense of self-preservation to the wind and took a step forward.

"You started this shit, Dean. You became Alastair's little pet and you started the Apocalypse. So now we've got demons running loose all over the place, angels fighting and dying, divine politics playing out in the streets." Sam paused for a second, eyes burning as he thought of all the death that had occurred and the destruction that was still forthcoming. "That's all you, Dean. That is _all_ on you. And if none of the rest of us are allowed to run and hide from it, you aren't either. You least of all," Sam snapped, his shoes wearing a hole in the carpet as he paced like a caged lion. He needed a blood fix, bad.

A muscle in Dean's jaw twitched and he took half a step forward before retreating two steps. Sam's anger reached new levels as he interpreted the withdrawal as apathy. He stormed forward and placed himself well within Dean's personal space, their noses practically touching.

"You don't give a shit anymore, do you, Dean? What, did the fires of hell burn it all out of you? Did you bleed it all out when you were on the rack?" Sam shouted, furious as his mind retraced all of Dean's recent behavior, looking for more examples of indifference, his drug-addled brain bruising his own thoughts in his frantic search.

Somehow Dean's pallor became more ashen, and shadows entered his eyes.

"Back off, Sammy."

The warning was impossibly soft, impossibly gentle, and hard as stone. The rushing, overbearing sensation of need so much worse than a nicotine craving made Sam open his mouth again, ignoring the quiet caution.

"I asked you a question, Dean. Do you even give a _fuck_ anymore?"

Before he even realized he was moving, an inhuman roar tore from Dean and he had his brother against the wall, one arm held against his throat, the other pulled back, fist ready to strike. Slightly dazed from the quick movement, Sam barely flinched. Dean hesitated a split second, mindless frustration giving way to tired resignation, and he slammed his knuckles through the drywall beside Sam's head. He owed the kid more than a split lip, but he didn't trust his detoxing brother not to beat him half dead if he tried it. The older hunter pressed himself against Sam, putting just enough pressure on his neck to keep his undivided attention.

"Now you listen and you listen good, you sorry son of a bitch! I know I started the Apocalypse; thank you for the fucking reminder. But if I didn't give a fuck, I wouldn't be here. So since we've established that I'm dedicated to finishing this thing, to stopping Lilith from breaking all the seals, I'm gonna take the rest of the night off. You think you can keep yourself from draining a demon dry for a few hours?"

Pissed, emasculated, and hungry for something other than the natural food of the world, Sam just glared at Dean, his jaw working against the arm below his chin.

"You go to hell," Sam whispered, and Dean's eyes widened, his body freezing for a second.

The younger hunter felt the shudder of revulsion that went through his brother's body, and he almost felt a bit of guilt. Then Dean's eyes turned cold, and the guilt fled. But Dean said nothing else and just stalked towards the door without a look back, slipping through it and slamming it hard behind him. Sam leaned against the wall and listened as the Impala revved to life; apparently even in negative twenty degree weather, Dean was still more than capable of fixing his baby. He rubbed his neck gingerly as he heard the tires tear against the pavement, the squeal sounding through the apartment.

Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to care about his brother for the moment. He needed to find Ruby. He walked up to the small table in the corner of the room and leaned heavily against one of the chairs for a moment. Mentally, he was a mess. Part of him demanded he chase after his brother, find him, and set things to rights. He was worried; it was late, icy, the car wasn't handling the cold well, and God knows mixing alcohol with all that was as far from a good idea as it could be. This same part that was worried about Dean whispered warnings against the desire coursing through him and begged him not to call the demon that held so much of him hostage. But the stronger part just smiled and shrugged and made him turn to reach for his phone.

Sam stopped short as he realized he wasn't alone anymore. Standing silently in the room a dozen feet from Sam, clad in his usual suit, loose blue tie, and tan trench coat, Castiel regarded him with a dark look.

"You're losing your brother, Sam," the angel informed stoically, voice grating with the low volume.

The hunter took a moment to decide how to answer as he cast the other man an incredulous stare.

"It was just a fight, Cas. Nothing we haven't done before. Stop being a mother hen," he said with an ease he didn't quite have.

He started towards his cell phone again, wrong-footed by the angel's appearance. Instead of Castiel remaining distant as he would have long ago, when there was no threat of worldwide destruction, the angel seemed to dig in his heels for a fight.

"You don't realize what you're doing, Sam. You're torturing him. You're doing nothing but increasing his suffering. Brothers are not supposed to fight. Not like this," he said emphatically, one hand cutting through the air in a harsh motion.

Sam huffed agitatedly and finally snagged his phone from the bed, thumbing through his contacts as he gave the conversation half his attention. He idly wondered why he didn't have Ruby on speed dial.

"Yeah, cause you're such an infallible barometer for how brothers are supposed to act," he commented under his breath.

There was no answer, even though Castiel was sure to have heard him, and Sam finally tossed a sideways look at the vessel.

"What the hell are you doing here, Cas?" he demanded, skin still thin from his fight with his brother; he resisted the urge to reach for his jacket.

Studying Sam intently for a few moments and undoubtedly seeing everything he wished he wouldn't, Castiel said at length, "I came to tell you that I'll be out of touch for a day or so. So please attempt to keep yourselves from doing anything...unusually reckless during that time."

Nodding noncommittally, Sam turned his back on the angel and murmured, "Yeah, will do," even as he wondered if letting Dean drive off into the frozen darkness of an unknown town was a usual or unusual act of recklessness in the angel's book.

A strong grip on his shoulder had him whipped around in a heartbeat. Castiel leaned close and stared hard at him. His eyes passed over the startled hunter's face, and his gaze bore into Sam's, his words echoing with an otherworldly vibe as he tried to convey truth.

"You will lose Dean. You will lose him before you are meant to. You are killing him, Sam. Stop," he ordered, his eyes almost lit from within as his hand tightened on the man's shoulder.

Blinking and wincing from the grip, Sam angrily refuted, "I'm not doing anything to him. We've always fought, Cas. He didn't care when I was gone to Stanford. I'm a responsibility to him, a chore. I get it and I'm okay with it. So I sincerely doubt that us having a little argument is gonna kill him."

At Sam's response, Castiel's eyes blazed and he seemed to struggle for the right words for a moment before he spoke, his tone reverent.

"There is a reason you two attract so much trouble, Sam. You and Dean were the best examples of _agápē_, unconditional love, for the better parts of your lives. Even when separated, the intensity of love for each other in your souls was awe-inspiring. Angels returning from war and battle would seek you two out in order to soak up the sheer warmth of the true and sacrificial love you both had for each other. It was the closest thing on this planet to the love the Christ has for his people, which is why there never seems to be any reprieve for your family," he added, and Sam gave him a ghost of a grin.

"So instead of 'no rest for the wicked', it's 'no rest for the righteous'?" Castiel didn't return the gesture and the somber mood returned to the room.

"He doesn't see you as a chore, Sam. All he's ever wanted is to keep you safe and to be a part of your life wherever he can find a space to fit. The whole of his existence, ever since he carried you from your family's home the night your mother died, has been you," the angel said gently.

Sam frowned and shook Castiel's hand off his shoulder, backing up a few feet to give himself some space, partly acknowledging the truth behind the angel's words even while he railed against it.

"You've gotta be kidding me, Cas. We didn't talk for two years. We've butted heads since before I can remember, on everything. We haven't ever done anything but fight with each other. With the greatest respect, Cas, you don't have a goddamn clue what you're talking about," Sam snapped, using the curse intentionally.

Castiel leveled an even look at him and challenged, "You're doubting the soul reading ability of an angel of the Lord, Samuel Winchester?"

Hearing a possibly unholy rumble in the background of the words, Sam wisely doubled back verbally and allowed, "I'm not doubting you, Cas. I just think you've got to be exaggerating, or lying, or something."

Castiel took one simple, threatening step towards the hunter, his blue eyes taking a silver sheen as he asked quietly, "You think I'm lying?"

Taking a responding step back, Sam felt an inch tall and his voice was a little higher pitched than usual as he offered hesitantly, "No? Um...yes? Dammit, Cas, I don't know!"

The angel shook his head and the quicksilver swirl disappeared from his gaze as Sam regained his confidence.

"How am I supposed to know, huh? You could be lying. I mean, you could be saying all this just to make me stop. Cause God knows you and Dean will stop at nothing to keep me from getting stronger. And I _have_ to get stronger. I have to defeat Lilith. She can't get away with what she did to Dean."

Castiel came as close to rolling his eyes as he could as he said, "Don't con a conman, Sam."

Sam paused and raised an eyebrow at him.

Frowning, the angel asked, "That's how the saying goes, isn't it?"

Hesitating a moment, the hunter nodded and muttered, "Just weird."

Sighing deeply, Castiel seemed to age before Sam's eyes as he said, "You don't want to exact justice on her for killing Dean and dragging his soul to hell, Sam. You look at this as a final test, the final proof that your brother and myself were wrong, that your powers are nothing to be feared and should instead be embraced. You are convinced of your path the same way your brother is convinced of his."

Sam said nothing, and he couldn't meet the gaze of the divine being, either.

"I'm not sorry, Cas. I'll do this. I'll stop the Apocalypse from happening and...I wasn't able to save him from hell, but I'll save him now."

Just two feet away from him, Castiel studied his features and shook his head slightly, sincere sorrow crossing his face for a moment.

"No, you won't. You can stop every death, kill every demon, heal every wound, and erase every scar, from now until eternity, but you will never, ever save your brother. Not like this."

Castiel put his hands on Sam's arms, directly where he'd left scars on Dean's, and his voice was low as he spoke.

"I told you that the brightness of the unconditional love between you and Dean was, at one time, an incredible emanation of warmth. Now there is almost nothing. It physically hurts me to be in the presence of you and Dean. His soul is tarnished by doubt and horror but still shines with a painful fervor. But you, Sam...you reflect almost none of it. To see you now and know how you were before...I feel I mourn a death. All of the heavenly host mourns."

Sam swallowed hard as a mental image shone through his mind: luminescent beings on their knees, sobbing, weeping, crying out for the loss, raging against the truth of it. With Castiel touching him, he knew what he saw was a real, projected memory from the angel. What began as a tickle in the deepest recesses of his mind quickly became an overwhelming sense of despair that flowed over him and through him like water, drowning him in its intensity. He was distantly aware of his knees giving out, though the angel held him fast. Choking out a desperate plea, he dimly felt Castiel walk him backwards and position him so he was leaning against the wall near the beds. Then the vessel moved away, and instead of emotional silence, he suddenly felt bereft and empty. For a split second, he didn't even feel the heady, ever-present desire for demon blood. He felt the angel's eyes on him, watching him as he slowly recovered, and he fought back tears ruthlessly.

"I'll return in a few days. Keep yourself safe, Sam. You and your brother," Castiel ordered gently.

With a flicker of beating wings, he was gone. The hunter sat heavily on the double bed beside him, his mind still sluggish from the onslaught of emotions he'd received from the angel. He breathed deeply through his nose and cast a glance towards his cell phone, which had been mindlessly discarded on the corner table. It sat silently, innocuous in its implication, and with a long pause to steady himself, Sam grabbed it and dialed a number.

"This is Dean. Leave a message."

Despite the pull of the need flowing through him, Sam sat on the bed throughout the night, calling his brother every five minutes, all the way to the dawn.

* * *

End Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

Title: He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother: Chapter Two

Author: Lucky Gun

Disclaimer: Own nothing except for the story concept. All characters and devices within are owned by Eric Kripke. Think it's cause he's so awesome? I think it's cause he's so awesome.

Summary: Dean breaks, shatters into a thousand pieces, and falls to the ground. Sam and Cas try to pick up the pieces and end up cutting themselves in the process.

A/N: The bar scene here is intentionally staggered and stilted. If you're frustrated enough and drunk enough, time doesn't flow properly. Also, I will neither confirm nor deny that I was drunk or sober while writing this chapter.

* * *

Estes Park, Colorado didn't have much in the way of nighttime entertainment. As far as cities went, it was a small summer resort town for the retired and the wealthy. With a population of less than six thousand, the odds of finding anything to do besides race the local constabulary was slim. Still, Dean had a record for finding the shadiest bars in even the brightest towns. So running across a little dive nestled in a back alley didn't surprise him much. In fact, he'd been counting on it.

Normally he would have hustled a game or two of pool before diving into a drink, if only to get the attention of anything in a skirt. But he slid through the door and made a beeline for the bar instead, losing himself in the pulsating beat rumbling from an ancient jukebox in the corner. There were maybe thirty people in the bar, for though it was late it was a Friday, and through the heavy smoke hanging in the air, no one but the bartender noticed his arrival.

The girl serving him shot after shot of rotgut was pretty, but not overly so. She had eyes that were too big for her face and too much makeup layered over her skin, but the more Dean drank the better she looked. Five shots in, a mini-rush of patrons ebbed and faded, and the bartender sallied over his way.

"Hi, hon. I'm Shelby. You seem like you've had a tough day," she said over the classic rock blaring from the jukebox.

Dean lifted his eyes from his intense inspection of the polyurethane finish on the bar and gestured for another shot. Frowning slightly and appraising him quickly, Shelby poured a liberal helping into the small glass and watched as he tossed it back without a wince. Setting the glass down with just a touch too much force, Dean fixed his eyes on her, contemplating silently for a moment.

"You could say that, I guess," he allowed, the alcohol loosening his tongue more than he'd like but less than he cared.

Rotating the glass slowly on the small cocktail napkin below it, Dean studied the drop of liquor in the bottom of it while he watched Shelby move around the bar, serving a few more customers drinks before she returned to stand near him, one hand already moving to fill his glass. Giving her a dim version of his usual smile, the hunter swallowed the shot and found himself speaking abruptly.

"Let's say you gave someone everything you were for your entire life. Your support, your trust, your advice, and eventually your life and your soul. Let's say you know they're doing something stupid, something that just...betrayal doesn't even cover it. And let's say you decide you want to go out and forget your entire life for a night. Do they have a right to be pissed at you for that?" he asked, feeling adrift in his own thoughts for a moment.

Shelby tilted her head to the side and asked lightly, "Woman trouble?"

Dean blinked once, twice, and then burst out laughing, only reining in his laughter when he realized he was drawing attention.

Chuckling softly, Dean raised his recently-filled glass in a slight toast to the bartender and said, "Could be at that. The way he acts sometimes..."

When the woman's eyebrows disappeared into her hairline, Dean swallowed the harsh liquor quickly and growled, "No, we're not gay. Son of a bitch...he's my brother."

Shelby looked unconvinced.

"Your brother? Friendly piece of advice, guy. If you talk about giving a guy your support, your soul, people are gonna think you're gay. But I'll let you blame the alcohol for your chick flick moment."

The hunter downed another shot and fixed her with a heavy look.

"Why is it against every guy code to be worried about your brother? I mean, we've been through a lot. We've lost all our family and almost all of our friends and if we don't straighten up and fly right, we'll lose the entire world. Why am I selfish for wanting him to stop hanging around with the bad guys and let me go out and get plastered?" he demanded, his words slurring slightly.

He couldn't remember if it was his seventh shot or his eighth, so he decided to play is safe and gestured for more. Hesitating longer this time, Shelby eventually poured the drink and leaned her hip against the bar, her arms crossed.

Giving him a sympathetic shrug, she offered, "Maybe he thinks you're being selfish. Brothers are supposed to look out for each other, right? I mean, maybe he sees what you've done for him as something any brothers would do for each other. Maybe he thinks you're just running away from him. I mean, what do you guys do, live together?"

Dean fiddled with his glass and answered, "We kind of travel all over, staying in hotels. We work together. Same job, I mean."

Shelby shuffled a few dirty glasses from the counter top to the deep sink beside her and asked over her shoulder, "What kind of job? Real estate or something?"

Shaking his head at that visual, Dean thought carefully; no amount of alcohol was capable of stilling his sense of caution when it came to a question like that.

He finally responded, "Yeah, or something."

Taking the polite sidestep for what it was, Shelby poured him another shot with no prompting and pressed, "So you guys had a fight. He's apparently hanging with a bad crowd, and you're worried about him. But you're sick and tired of being worried, so you came here to wind down, and he's pissed that you took a night off from property evaluations or whatever. That the long and short of it, hon?"

Taking two sips to finish his shot, Dean waved off her offer of another; he knew he was way over the limit.

"That's it in a nutshell, sweetheart. That's it."

The bar was almost dead at this point, and a quick glance at his watch showed Dean that he'd been at the bar for hours; it was almost two in the morning. A glance around proved this: a janitor was mopping up, every other patron was gone, and the 'OPEN' sign that had been his beacon of hope was dark in the icy window.

Swiveling on his bar stool, the hunter cast the bartender an apologetic look.

"Seems like I've eaten your night up, huh? Sorry about that."

Shelby dried her hands on a rag and said, "Don't be, hon. You seem like a hard luck case. Good thing I'm a sucker for those."

She winked at him as she finished wiping down the counter, and he felt a stirring in his blood. Swallowing hard, he searched his drunk mind for his usual charm. Missing it, he leaned over and held his head in his hands, Sam's voice echoing over his thoughts.

He didn't know how long he sat like that, miserable in his introspection, but he felt a soft hand on his shoulder and looked up quickly. The bartender was standing next to him, a concerned look on her face. She blinked, eyes widening, and Dean swiped a hand over his face; it came back damp. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he felt an unfamiliar rush of shame course through him. Crying in public and confessing his issues to a bartender; how low could he get?

But Shelby just leaned in closer and whispered, "You said you want to forget everything tonight, right?"

Dean didn't risk a look up as he nodded; the husky tone in her voice made that well-known stirring rise again. So he didn't resist when she pulled at his hand and started leading him to the door, steadying his slight stagger with her lithe body. He didn't know how they got across the icy parking lot without crashing to the ground. He wasn't aware of them climbing into her beat up pickup truck. He forced himself to instead focus on sensations. The touch of her hand on his face, the warmth of her skin against his, the sound of her breathy moans echoing through the cab.

They rocked against each other almost silently, fully clothed against the chill of the mountain's winter. He fumbled for his wallet but her fingers stilled his search, a silent explanation in her gaze. So he buried his hands in her hair and his lips crushed against hers as he slipped inside of her. Her hands slid under his shirts and clutched his shoulders, fingernails scrabbling over old scars and fresh wounds. Her palms burned his back like a brand, and he soaked up her touch. And for a handful of minutes, he was able to forget everything.

When they both drifted down from their high, Dean rearranged his clothes as he felt the weight of the world settle uncomfortably on his shoulders. He sat silently as Shelby snuggled up beside him, more for warmth than for the cuddle time most women seemed to want after sex. He put an arm around her and tried to figure out, once again, just how in the hell he was supposed to stop the Apocalypse.

"You owe me eighty seven dollars, guy."

The soft words made the hunter stiffen slightly; he had never and would never pay for it.

Feeling him tense, Shelby chuckled and added, "For the drinks in the bar. You never did pay me. I'll add it to the till tomorrow. No worries."

Relaxing a bit, Dean handed her the cash after only two attempts. She still seemed content to cozy up next to him, and as he watched the fog on the windows give way to a thin sheet of ice, he was inclined to agree. He wrapped both arms around her shoulders and sighed silently as he found his mind running through possible scenarios, attempting to find every saving grace to stop the end of the world from happening.

Sensing his mental distance, Shelby asked quietly, "What're you thinking about?"

Dean's eyes darted down to her and he quirked an eyebrow as he tried for humor.

"I'm trying to decide if you tricked me into that so you could have my baby and blackmail me for child support."

Playfully smacking his arm, Shelby answered, "I'm on the pill, jackass, and any guy that has chick flick moments isn't going to purposefully infect a random stranger with something. So what's on your mind?"

Sighing loudly this time, Dean shook his head, already extricating himself from the sweet embrace of the bartender.

"Everything. My brother. The world. Angels and demons and heaven and hell. And how to stop it all from ending."

Shelby opened her mouth to say something as Dean opened the truck's door, but he just tossed her a wry grin that was, of all things, a bit shy.

"Thank you, Shelby."

Giving him a responding grin, she recognized the good bye.

"Take care of yourself, cowboy. And tell your brother to lay off and do the paperwork himself."

Tipping an invisible hat in her direction, Dean nodded. "You got it, sweetheart."

Then he shuffled out of the cab and stood silently next to the truck, watching as it rumbled to life and rolled slowly out of the parking lot. The snow fell in small, heavy flakes, and he stared at the Impala as its shiny black finish became marred by the precipitation. Dean shook his head hard and squinted as his eyes blurred a bit. Now he just had to get home. If he could remember which direction his current home was.

* * *

End Chapter Two


	3. Chapter 3

Title: He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

Author: Lucky Gun

Disclaimer: Own nothing except for the story concept. All characters and devices within are owned by Eric Kripke. Think it's cause he's so awesome? I think it's cause he's so awesome.

Summary: Dean breaks, shatters into a thousand pieces, and falls to the ground. Sam and Cas try to pick up the pieces and end up cutting themselves in the process.

A/N: Sorry for the shortness of the previous chapter. Just the way things flowed.

* * *

It was nearing dawn when Sam heard the crunch of tires on snow directly outside the hotel room. He stopped his incessant pacing and hurried to the front door, yanking it open and coming up short as he took in the sight before him. The Impala was parked sideways in the lot, taking up three spaces, and Dean was currently struggling out of the driver's side door. He staggered to his feet, keeping his balance between some act of God and the car's door and frame, and he grinned cheekily at his brother.

"Heya, Sammy!" he called drunkenly, his loud voice carrying way too easily over the silent snow.

Sam growled an incomprehensible curse and ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head as he watched Dean finally slam the car door shut and take one step towards the hotel room. The next second he was on his back, the black ice beneath his feet apparently not conducive to drink-fueled wandering. Sam sighed and started forward carefully, picking his way across the sidewalk, and he heard Dean chuckle in between groans.

"What's so funny, Dean?" Sam snapped, momentarily forgetting his earlier overwhelming worry for his brother.

Dean waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the ground he'd fallen on and winked at his brother. "Second time tonight I got laid, Sammy."

Biting back a sharp remark at that, Sam clenched his jaw shut and leveled his brother to his feet, eventually getting him inside the room. Depositing Dean none-too-gently on the bed, Sam turned and cranked up the heat on the tiny unit in the wall, frowning as it rattled almost painfully to put out the warm air. Turning back to his brother, he hurried over as he saw him trying to get out of his multiple layers of clothes.

Sighing, Sam asked softly, "Why do you do this to yourself, Dean?" The older hunter turned blown-out pupils in his direction and smiled widely.

"Why did I take a night off? Cause it's awesome, Sammy; you ought to try it!" Yanking on Dean's shirts a little too hard, one of the buttons on his overshirt flew off, making Sam duck. "Come on, Dean. This is irresponsible even for you. You're falling-down drunk and you slept with some hapless bystander." Ignoring Dean's protest that the ice was to blame for his fall, Sam continued undressing his brother, who went from passive to active resistance with the process.

"You turned off your phone and I had no idea where you were. You realize how stupid that was?" Sam snapped as he tossed Dean's boots to the floor and started working on the fly of his jeans. His hands were smacked away with surprising force and Dean struggled away from his brother.

"Geez, dude! Some friggin' space, huh? You're tearing off my clothes, popping buttons all over the place, and you're trying to get into my pants? See, this is why Wincest exists!"

There was a heavy silence, and then Sam cast his brother a puzzled look. For his part, his drunken counterpart looked shocked.

"I swear I have no idea where that came from, but I am taking out a trade mark on it. How much you think those idiots who write stories based on Chuck's books will pay to use it?"

Sighing again, Sam silently continued to help his brother undress, pulling the covers over him when he was down to his boxers and tee shirt. All the while, Dean muttered under his breath about jukeboxes being way too loud and truck cabs being way too small. Heaping the covers on him, Sam leaned back and sat on the edge of the other bed, Castiel's words from earlier rolling through his head. He watched as Dean fell into a deep and heavy sleep, and his thoughts chased each other ruthlessly. He kept hearing the angel's warnings, the painful truth of them aching in his soul as another noise caught his attention.

Glancing over at the side table, Sam swallowed hard as he saw his cell phone dance across the surface, the soft vibration and silent lights keeping Dean safely in the land of obliviousness. Grabbing the phone from the table, Sam saw the caller ID flash across the screen: Ruby. A whisper of doubt and fear tunneled through his brain, and he glanced sideways at his brother, an echo of the overwhelming despair that Castiel had showed him ringing through him.

Making a decision, Sam pressed the end button on the call. Then, without giving himself no time to balk, he flipped through his contacts and deleted Ruby's number. Exhaling sharply, Sam set the phone back on the table and stared at it hard for a moment, indecision still warring within him. Then Dean mumbled something under his breath and shifted beneath the covers, and Sam gave a ghost of a smile. Standing and flexing his arms against the tension in them, the tall hunter dedicated a few minutes of his time to drawing wards on the door of the room and laying salt lines at the window. That done, he pulled the curtains shut and wandered back to his bed, sliding under the covers gratefully. He cast another glance at his brother, and decided that the fire tearing through his veins and the insomnia clawing at his brain was worth it.

Dean was still, somehow, worth it.

* * *

As the sun hefted itself over the dawn, two figures stared over the sleepy town, the vantage point from the side of the mountain giving them a breathtaking view. One stood slightly behind the other, and though he was clad in only a cheap suit, he didn't appear to notice the cold as the wind whipped around him. He was younger looking than the other man, maybe in his mid-forties, and he stood tall and straight, his mannerisms speaking of a bodyguard. The other figure appeared old and withered, and his face held a striking resemblance to the famed Shakespeare. Like his companion, he wore a suit, though a long woolen coat hung over his frame.

"You think they'll get the message, Raziel?" the other asked, his eyes seeking out a small motor lodge at the edge of the town.

Giving a small, almost timid smile, the one called Raziel nodded slightly, quiet confidence clear in his gaze.

"Yes, Nitish. I believe it shall be what the Lord has decreed," he answered softly, and Nitish nodded slightly, casting his eyes towards the center of town.

"We certainly did all but sign our name on that. Are you sure about this?" he asked, taking a step closer to the older man.

Not pausing in his study of the town, Raziel responded, "This is the only way. You know that."

Frowning slightly, Natish gave an answering nod, but said, "I wish there was a more direct way."

Casting an ancient and amused glance at the other man, he refuted, "A more direct way? What way is more direct than death?"

* * *

Dean jumped as a heavy smack fell across his face, the resounding "whap" echoing through the room. Groaning and ducking his head under the covers, he tried to quell the freight train running through his head.

"A little sympathy here! Hangover, dude."

Sam let loose a stream of words that sounded vaguely pissed and more than annoyed, and yet another smack was laid on his shoulder. Rolling over and wincing at the sunset light that glinted off the snow outside and glared through the curtains, Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and did his best to focus on his Sasquatch-sized brother.

"Stop hitting me! Damn..." he snapped, blinking quickly as his words seemed to set Sam off again.

He managed to catch a few words here and there, but it still wasn't making sense. Still, hungover or not, his hunter's instincts were sharp as ever, and his arm whipped out from under the covers and he grabbed his brother's wrist as he tried to smack him again. Ripping what appeared to be a newspaper from Sam's grip, Dean withdrew his arm under the covers again, a satisfied smirk on his face.

"Gotcha, Sammy," he murmured cockily.

"No, Dean, you almost got us caught! What the hell were you thinking?" Sam fumed, and Dean sighed and sat up, the uncomfortable burden of his life and what it was settling down on him.

His eyes caught the clock and then he caught his brother's furious gaze, memories of their fight the night before flowing through him. Swallowing the sudden pain stoically, he nevertheless let his eyes turn icy as he gave Sam a hard look.

"What are you talking about, Sam?" he growled, his headache beating through his brain relentlessly, the pain in his head matching the pain in his heart.

Gesturing wildly toward the rolled-up newspaper Dean still held, Sam bit out, "Look at the cover story."

Refusing to acknowledge the exhausted frustration that rolled through him, Dean did so. He felt a bit of nausea rise up and he shoved it down ruthlessly, absently searching for the aspirin in the side table with one hand while holding the paper with his other. His attention was diverted as the front picture glared out at him from the newsprint: a telephone pole was lit up by a bank of flood lights, red and blue lights highlighting the darkness, and a pristine white sheet was draped over something vaguely human shaped two dozen feet off the ground. The headline read "Murder in Estes: Citizen Skewered, Cops Baffled". Sitting up straighter and frowning at the article, Dean stood and began walking towards the coffee pot that, thankfully, had come with the room. Preparing it one handed, Dean read the article aloud.

"Police were called to the scene of a sadistic and horrendous crime last night at one AM, at the corner of Oak and Aspen. James McNaughton, 49, of Boulder was found twenty feet off the ground on a utility pole. Police report that McNaughton was actually skewered by the pole. McNaughton had been in police custody on suspicions of attempted child abduction. How he escaped from his holding cell is not known. It is also unclear as to how McNaughton was killed. To obtain the positioning of his body as it was found by a plow crew this morning would be incredibly difficult, if not impossible. The top tier of the utility pole would have to have been removed, the body placed, and the tier replaced. Police found no evidence the top tier had been tampered with, and the power company reports no loss of connection with the transformer the pole supplies. Additionally, if McNaughton had been killed by forcing his body down the pole, crime scene investigators state there would be a blood trail from the top of the pole to the location McNaughton had been found. Instead, there was none. The police investigation is ongoing, but it seems unlikely the public will receive a satisfactory explanation for this gruesome murder."

Pausing, Dean looked up and allowed, "Okay, something is definitely weird here. But I still don't get how that translates into me almost getting us caught."

Sam's eyes showed no forgiveness and he growled, "Look again, Dean."

The older hunter redirected his gaze to the picture atop the headline, his now-focused eyes finding the outline of the Impala almost immediately. It was barely noticeable in the corner of the photo, but Dean's own image was more noticeable in the foreground; he had forgotten he stumbled onto the scene and sweet talked some information out of one of the deputies.

Tossing the paper on top of the bed, Dean shrugged and poured himself a cup of coffee, oblivious to Sam's mounting anger.

"Hey, by the way, I saw that scene last night. Pretty awful stuff. Coffee?" he asked, grinning up at his brother. The way Sam's face darkened made him roll his eyes. "Relax, Sam. I kept four feet from the officer at all times and I was standing downwind; there's no way they were going to smell the alcohol on me. And after I pointed out the missing blood trail and they started all this ruckus over the top of the pole, they didn't really notice my driving when I left. Think I almost destroyed her right hubcaps on a few curbs."

Dean winced at the thought and threw on some clothes, intent on checking on the Impala, but Sam intercepted him on his way to the door.

"You could've gotten arrested for DUI, Dean! They would've impounded the car and found what was in the trunk. We would have been screwed. But you just had to have your little vacation, didn't you? You just had to have a night off! While you were out jacking around, someone got killed!" Sam shouted, frustration and detox wearing on his nerves.

Dean took a step back, noticing the shakes in Sam's hands that, for some reason, hadn't disappeared over the course of the night.

"What happened, Sam? Ruby just wanted a good lay? She didn't want you to drain her last night?" he baited, saying anything to chase away the truth in his brother's words.

But for whatever reason, Sam opened his mouth and nothing came out. He closed his mouth with an audible click and breathed deep for a moment before he decided to speak again.

"I know you don't trust me, Dean, but it would be nice if you actually kept me in the loop on jobs. Especially when we don't know what we're dealing with here. You've gotta stop being so damned reckless!"

Eyes blazing, Dean set his coffee down and pushed a finger in Sam's chest.

"Let's get one thing straight, Sammy-boy. You hanging around with a demon? Reckless. You drinking demon blood? Damned reckless. Me doing my job while maintaining my sanity? Not reckless! So don't you try to tell me what to do. Even if I hadn't gone out that guy still woulda died; we just would've been sleeping when it happened."

Sam snorted, "You mean passed out? God knows you would've drunk yourself into oblivion if you'd stayed in."

Dean snarled, "Forgive me for trying to forget some shit, Sam." He reigned in his anger with a monumental triumph of mind over mind and let his stance relax. "Like you stripping me naked and molesting me last night."

Huffing indignantly, Sam answered, "I didn't molest you, Dean. And you weren't naked, thank God."

Turning back to his coffee, Dean shrugged and mentally turned back to the topic at hand.

"Okay, so we've got a guy shish kebabbed on a telephone pole. So let's start checking off creatures. Ghost?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Sam shook his head and started flipping through John's journal.

"No. They affect current physical things. It would have the same limitations in the crime as a human, just without the winching or hoisting," he explained, even though he knew that Dean knew fully why it couldn't be a ghost; it was just nice to bounce ideas off other people every once in awhile.

"Okay, no go on the ghost. Given those kinds of qualifications, that knocks out wraiths, women in white, zombies, aliens, and pretty much everything else. Only things I can think of that can actually place someone where they want them – say twenty feet up a utility pole without leaving a mark – is a witch, a trickster, and...an angel," Dean finished under his breath.

He hated the fact that the last was even an option, but he knew that there were rogue angels all over the place anymore, and if impaling people on telephone poles was something they wanted to do, there wasn't a lot he could do to stop them. Sam seemed to suddenly remember something, but before he could say anything, Dean shook his head and drained his coffee cup.

"I'm betting a witch. There's lots of Native American influences around here, and it wouldn't be too much of a stretch for someone to have taken mysticism and superstition and turned it on a suspected child abductor. But it's almost five at night, so we're not going to get too much done today. Any suggestions, bookworm?" he asked, trying hard for the easygoing camaraderie he and his brother used to have.

Sam cocked his head a little, then hurriedly pulled up a map on his computer, silently thankful that the small lodge had free wi-fi. Scrolling around the page for a minute, Sam nodded and pointed at the screen.

"Look here. Less than ten miles outside of town there's a Native American historical society. It's open year round until seven PM. Wanna head out there?"

Dean leaned down and looked over his brother's shoulder, a slight bob in his head. "Yeah, sounds good. Seems like a good place around here for any fledgling witch to start. Check the weather real quick; want to make sure we're not driving out into a blizzard or something."

While Sam tapped at the keys on his laptop, Dean worked on pulling their stuff together. They had one bag of supplies in the trunk of the Impala, while most of their other supplies were in the room. As he packed an assortment of guns, rock salt, holy water, and other various devices of paranormal destruction, he took a minute to look over at his brother. Sam was searching dutifully for the weather in their area, and one leg was bouncing incessantly underneath the small table. His eyes, while mostly focused on the screen, were darting from side to side, and the dark circles under them indicated sleepless nights. His hands were still shaking, and his skin looked paler than usual. This led Dean to one conclusion: Sam was detoxing. The "why" intrigued him. He had been gone for five hours the night before, then passed out for almost twelve more. His brother had more than enough time in there to get together with Ruby to get his fix. Hell, he could've hunted down a demon in the town they were at, if it came to it. But for whatever reason, he hadn't. So he was detoxing.

"Hey, you hear from Cas lately?" Dean asked suddenly, watching Sam's reaction from the corner of his eye; if the angel had given his brother any kind of anti-demon ultimatum, he wouldn't be able to hide it.

Sam actually seemed to grow less nervous and some expression creased his face for a moment, but it was gone before Dean could name it.

"Oh, yeah! He was here last night," he started, but before he could say anything else, Dean's phone rang.

Grabbing it immediately, Dean squinted at the number, frowning when it displayed as 'unavailable'. Still, it could be someone in trouble, so he decided to answer. Flipping open the phone, he cast his brother a look and pressed the send button.

"Hello?" There was nothing but static on the line, and he tried again. "Hello?"

There was still no answer, and Dean flipped the phone shut, staring at it like it had bit him.

"Huh, that was weird. Oh well. Let's head out, Sammy," he ordered, grabbing the duffel and walking out the door. Sam stood and followed, pulling the door shut behind him as he babbled about the weather, and within short order the car was rolling down the road.

Standing outside the hotel, two men in suits, one young, one old, watched the classic muscle car head west. Straightening, Nitish cast Raziel a wry grin.

"This kind of game was a lot harder before cell phones were invented."

* * *

End Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

Title: He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother: Chapter Four

Author: Lucky Gun

Disclaimer: Own nothing except for the story concept. All characters and devices within are owned by Eric Kripke. Think it's cause he's so awesome? I think it's cause he's so awesome.

Summary: Dean breaks, shatters into a thousand pieces, and falls to the ground. Sam and Cas try to pick up the pieces and end up cutting themselves in the process.

A/N: Sorry, I hate Ruby (all the best regards to the actress, however). I hate that damned storyline. I hate the whole brotherly disconnect they worked in there. So I changed it. Prerogative of being a fanfiction writer. :P

* * *

Dean sucked his lip between his teeth and bit down hard. He resisted the urge to slam his hand into the dashboard, because aside from hurting himself and hurting his baby, it wouldn't fix anything. The only luck he could see was that, outside the stricken car, the weather held itself in a balmy state, compared to the night before; it was almost forty degrees, the air was calm, and it was cloudy. Glancing over at his brother, Dean leveled a finger in his face.

"Not a friggin' word, Sam," he warned, already pulling his jacket tighter as he prepared to exit the vehicle.

Sam just gave a wry grin and followed him, looking around at their near-dark surroundings. The Impala had fought her way up a snow-covered road only to lose her transmission once again near the top of a hill. Letting the car roll backwards into a plow turnaround, Dean had parked it while cursing like a sailor. Now the older hunter was rummaging through the trunk for his tools. Sam frowned as he heard the cursing get louder, the volume playing havoc with his detox-sensitive hearing.

Heading around the car to the trunk, he caught his brother's confused features in the glare of the flashlight he'd already pulled and asked, "Problem?"

Dean looked around him, frowning, and stared hard at the interior of the trunk as he replied, "I had my tools in here. Right. Here. What the hell...?"

He trailed off as a sudden flash of memory hit him: him taking his tool bag into the hotel room and setting it by the door, determined to organize the damn thing before he needed it again. Shutting his eyes and leveling a heavier curse at himself, Dean snagged their weapons duffel from the bag and slammed the trunk shut.

"So...I take it we're walking?" Sam asked disdainfully, his mouth going dry at the prospect of that much work while shaking like a leaf.

Dean appeared not to notice his discomfort and grunted an affirmative as he looked over his car mournfully.

Clearing his throat and hoping for normalcy, Sam clapped him on the shoulder and said, "She'll be fine, Dean. We'll get back to town, get your tools, and get back here before the sun gets up. I doubt this road gets that much traffic anyway."

But Dean's eyes didn't stray from his car, so Sam pulled a map and consulted it quietly in the flashlight's bouncing beam to confirm what he already knew.

"Straight shot back to town. About four miles, give or take. If we stay on the road and jog a bit to stay warm, we can be back at the motel within an hour, maybe a little longer. You game?"

Dean shot him an annoyed look and hefted the duffel higher as he retorted, "Do I have a choice?"

So the two began walking from the Impala after Dean was sure to lock every door and leave a very threatening note on the dash.

_We'll be back soon. Touch my car and I'll force-feed you your own Rocky Mountain Oysters._

His brother had wisely withheld commentary on that, but he couldn't stop a chuckle from escaping him once Dean was a few paces ahead. Pissed off, Dean looked over his shoulder and gestured with his flashlight to the road ahead.

"You coming, Sasquatch?" he asked, irritated at the situation.

Sam nodded and hurried to catch up, the two walking in companionable silence for several minutes as their twin flashlights bobbed over the snowy road. Sam's shook more, and as the Impala disappeared behind a few hills, Dean's attention moved from his car to his brother. He looked over him carefully and noted the sweat on his face. Hefting the duffel higher up his back, he stared straight ahead.

"Why are you detoxing, Sam?"

Though he didn't know it was possible, Sam began to shake harder, and he stumbled, some strength he'd been pulling on flagging in the face of the hike. Immediately dropping the bag he carried, Dean grabbed Sam by his shoulders and steadied him.

"Easy, easy," he murmured, and in the ambient lighting the snow gave from the flashlights, he took in his brother's sorry state.

Sam's pupils were dilated, watery, his nose was running, and he was trembling incessantly. One arm was wrapped around his gut, and the way he held himself indicated muscle cramping in the torso. Goosebumps were raised up on the skin that was visible, and his teeth chattered as he gave Dean a miserable grin.

"It's what you wanted, right?" he asked lightly, and Dean swallowed hard.

Snagging the duffel and pulling his brother's arm over his shoulders, he started forward as he ruthlessly held back unwanted tears.

"Goddammit, Sam. You should've told me. You need to be someplace warm and safe, not traipsing around a frozen wasteland looking for a witch. What if we'd gotten into trouble, huh? Are you even able to shoot straight?" he demanded, his mind going over limitless scenarios, desperately figuring the logistics of protecting Sam in the middle of all of them.

Sam folded in on himself as a particularly nasty bought of cramps tore through his system, and Dean staggered slightly under the shift before he compensated by widening his stance.

"Sorry, Dean. Didn't think about that," his brother said, sotto voce, and Dean bit the inside of his cheek as he heard the self-loathing in his voice.

"Don't worry about it, dude. Just need to get you home. Can you make it back to town or do you want to stay with the car while I go get help?" he asked as he carefully considered his options.

If Sam wanted to keep going, it was going to take them twice as long to get back, but Dean would at least be able to keep an eye on his brother. If Sam elected to stay with the Impala, Dean would worry less about his car but more about his brother; the kid had a penchant for attracting trouble.

"Let's just keep going, Dean. You'd never forgive me if I threw up in the car."

That was the only warning the other hunter got, and he scrambled to the soft shoulder of the road just as Sam lost an apparently long battle with his nausea. Kneeling on the forgiving snow instead of the rocky road, Sam retched heavily for a few minutes, bringing up everything he had and hadn't eaten in the last day. Grim-faced, Dean kept his flashlight trained on the hot puddle of mess that grew steadily larger at every heave. As the attack eased up, Dean was relieved to see just bile and no blood. Wordlessly he stepped away a few feet and grabbed a handful of clean-looking snow and handed it to Sam. Just as silently, Sam ate it and rinsed out his mouth as it melted, spitting it out when he finished.

Dean knelt down and angled his light upwards, staring hard at his brother; apparently disliking what he saw, he shook his head and muttered, "And here I thought I was stubborn. Bitch."

Unable to grin but appreciating the sentiment, Sam whispered, "Jerk."

That was as much as a chick flick moment as they'd allow themselves, and Dean pulled Sam to his feet again and they started trudging on towards town.

* * *

"Now?"

There was a moment of silence, then a calm response.

"Not yet."

Frowning, Nitish watched the two figures stumbling through the darkness, perplexed by the delay but deferent to the wiser man. Turning back to Raziel, he saw the other man's eyes grow soft and sad.

"This isn't going to be pretty."

Sighing deeply, Raziel agreed, "Human suffering never is. But it is necessary. Even more so in this case."

Nodding slightly, Nitish saw the figures move around a bend, the road following a river's ebb.

"And what of their companion?"

Raziel seemed to age a few decades as he responded, "I shall bind him; do not worry. All shall happen as it should, detestable though it may be."

Nitish nodded and the two stood silently for a few moments before Raziel shifted slightly.

"Go."

And then Nitish was gone.

* * *

Dean struggled with his footing as the icy rock rolled under his boot. Beside him, Sam was barely cognizant of his surroundings, and his breathing was labored as his muscles cramped and ached in the cold. Mentally cursing the weather and the job, he stopped just short of cursing the Impala's transmission. It hadn't been her fault. It couldn't have been. He screwed up when he fixed her the night before. He had to have. No way his baby would leave him walking.

"The bell housing...that was fine. No dents, no bends. Nothing to do with it. The gears: main and planetary were fine. They were moving. They were fine. The fluid was topped off. The filter was clean. It was fine. I fixed it right. It was fine. No reason it should've broken down. No reason," he murmured to himself as he walked, each word punctuated by a step or a shuffle over the ice.

Sam said nothing, and Dean cursed aloud before reigning himself in. He didn't like the situation at all. His brother was hovering somewhere between distracted and totally disconnected, they had no ride home, it was cold, it was dark, their flashlights were flickering as the batteries threatened to give up the ghost, and the town was just too fucking far.

Swallowing back what could have escalated into a panic attack, Dean paused while he readjusted Sam's weight, the pull of the duffel, and his hold on his flashlight. His hands were numb and his fingers ached, but he grasped his brother's coat and the light's barrel ruthlessly and continued on. The Colt at his back, usually a comforting presence, was a block of ice between his skin and his waistband. Beside him he heard the too-loud gurgling of the rapids of a river that kept pace with the road, and he started shifting them away from the right shoulder of the road for safety, mindful of rock slides.

And then, suddenly, inexplicably, the ground beneath his feet disappeared.

The flashlight died immediately. In the dark, with no light to see by, it felt like a cold hell. He was tumbling, rock and ice slamming into his body with unforgiving force. He felt the duffel tear itself from his grip, and he lost his hold on Sam's jacket as he rolled into what felt like a boulder, his wrist dashing itself against the stone. He fell head over heels, grunts tearing out him with every impact, and the river grew louder to the point of overwhelming. He felt his left foot catch on something, and then excruciating pain radiated up his leg. Something raked across his chest and back, and he felt something stab into his side.

The cry that wanted to rip from his throat was drowned out as he abruptly plunged underwater. The cold was shocking and breathtaking, and had he any air in his lungs he would've lost it. He rolled through the current, unable to determine up from down, and his chest screamed for release. Kicking and praying he was headed the right way, Dean clawed his way to the surface, breaking through the frothy water with a loud gasp. Coughing hard and desperately trying to tread water even as he was propelled downstream at fierce speeds, Dean jerked his head around desperately.

"Sam! Sammy, where are you!" he shouted, his muscles aching and threatening to lock with the intense cold.

He heard nothing but the rush of the river, and he cried out as he was slammed into yet another rock. Losing his concentration for a moment, a small wave of water flowed over his head, and he forced his body to the surface again, sputtering.

"SAM!"

For a few terrible seconds, he heard nothing. Then, miraculously, he heard soft words and weak coughing a few meters downstream of him.

"Sam! Sam, answer me!" he ordered as he began paddling with the current, steadily ignoring the lancing pain from his left arm.

There was something that could've been acknowledgment from his brother, and Dean powered through the water as fast as he could. It was pitch dark and he couldn't see anything; there was no light from moon or stars, overcast as the sky was. But he could hear just fine. So he swam hard towards the sounds of chattering teeth and low groans. As his eyes got used to the night without the flashlight's constant glare, Dean realized he could make out moving darkness versus still darkness.

Spotting Sam's head bobbing atop the water was a little easier then. Wincing as his gut clenched from the icy water, he reached out an arm and managed to snag his brother's jacket again. He'd been floating on his back, somehow perfectly balanced, and he didn't move as Dean grabbed him.

"Sam! Are you awake?" he shouted as he pulled his brother closer and assumed the standard rescue position; he pulled Sam so he was floating with his back flush against Dean's chest.

Getting no answer, Dean tightened his hold against Sam's upper torso with his injured arm, nearly biting through his lip as he kept himself from screaming in the other hunter's ear at the strain. He used his forearm to keep his grip on his unresponsive brother and started paddling slowly towards the shore as the rapids began to ease. He wracked his brain for a map of the river, to see if the course downstream was still parallel with the road, and bet that it was. So he headed towards the right bank, wincing every time he kicked.

Out of nowhere, he saw something large and unmoving in the rushing darkness around him, getting steadily and quickly closer. Without hesitating, Dean immediately turned his body and wrapped his arms around Sam, ducking his brother's head down with his own chin. As they neared the rock the current's speed increased and sucked them underwater, pushing them towards the stone in a horizontal corkscrew motion. The impact with the bus-sized boulder was centered squarely on the right side of Dean's head, and he blinked sluggishly in the wet darkness as he collided with the rock. His thoughts, which before had been clear and focused by the bite of the cold water, suddenly grew muddled and slow.

The current released them and they rose to the surface again, the flow of the river rolling them around the boulder. Dean inhaled deeply as he shook his head carefully, wincing as a migraine of intense proportions slammed into him. Uneasy and confused, he began paddling again, unsure of his direction, and barely managed to maintain his hold on Sam's unresponsive body. He lost track of time as he kicked, almost befuddled by the shocks of pain as they came at him from seemingly random spots on his body. What could have been an eternity or only a few minutes passed before he found himself on a snowy patch of ground on the river's edge. He crawled up the bank, dragging with him something he couldn't make out in the darkness but knew was important, and pulled himself and his burden to the pine needle-covered snow-pack beneath a large tree.

Bewildered, scared, and unable to remember anything before the fight from the river's pull, Dean held Sam against him and stared out at the intense darkness, his breath hitching as he felt the night close down upon them oppressively. Twisting and grabbing his Colt and gripping it tightly, he opened his eyes wide and fruitlessly searched the area for danger. He blinked slowly and felt the harsh breathing of his charge. Pulling him closer and wrapping his arms around him for warmth, Dean whispered words that, for the moment, made very little sense to him, though he knew instinctively they would provide protection to the one he defended.

"Pater noster, qui _es_ in cœlis; sanctificatur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum, fiat voluntas tua, sicut in cœlo, et in terra. Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. Quia tuum est regnum, et potestas, et Gloria, in saecula. Amen."

Standing just feet away from Dean but invisible to his eyes, Raziel and Nitish listened to Dean recite the Lord's Prayer in Latin incessantly. They watched with mournful but determined gazes as he began stuttering, the prayer starting and stopping as he fought a losing battle against the unconsciousness that wanted to claim him for its own. Eventually, his words stopped and he slumped against his brother, their combined body heat fighting off hypothermia, barely.

Following the silent order from his superior, the younger man immediately raised the brothers' body temperatures, ensuring their forthcoming survival against the elements. Nitish then cast a glance at Raziel and asked an unspoken question.

"Not yet. We must wait for their companion."

* * *

End of Chapter Four


	5. Chapter 5

Title: He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother: Chapter Five

Author: Lucky Gun

Disclaimer: Own nothing except for the story concept. All characters and devices within are owned by Eric Kripke. Think it's cause he's so awesome? I think it's cause he's so awesome.

Summary: Dean breaks, shatters into a thousand pieces, and falls to the ground. Sam and Cas try to pick up the pieces and end up cutting themselves in the process.

A/N: And now it gets angsty. Hopefully you've stuck with me to this point. It's worth it. I promise! This is a short chapter. Next one is longer.

* * *

The sun was high in the sky when Dean awoke. He blinked hard, wincing against the bright sun on the white snow around him. He raised his head and immediately hissed at the movement, an avalanche of pain flooding his system. Breathing shallowly against the pounding in his ribs, he looked around slowly, mindful of the agony moving seemed to bring. He saw two of everything: two Sam's, two Colt's, two everythings.

Sam was unconscious and laying against him, his chin touching his chest, and his breathing was quick and low. Dean unwrapped his arms from his brother, wincing when his left wrist throbbed at the motion. He didn't stop until he checked Sam's pulse; he frowned at the rapid heart beat beneath his frozen fingers. A sudden wave of dizziness stopped Dean's further movement and he hesitated, giving himself a few moments to regroup.

When the spinning of the earth stopped, the fog remained, and he looked around slowly, confused. He extricated himself from beneath Sam's weight, laying him down gently on the dry ground, groaning as a myriad of injuries made themselves known, and he carefully tested each limb, taking stock. His left ankle and wrist were both at least badly sprained, maybe broken. A sharp stab of pain revealed he'd been cut by something across his upper back and stomach, with a nasty-looking puncture wound in his side. A soft tickle at his neck turned out to be blood dripping from the inside of his ear; he was competent enough to realize that was a bad thing. His ribs were badly bruised if not broken, and judging from his fatigue, headache, and the taste of copper in his mouth, he knew he had a severe concussion.

Loosening his fingers from around his Colt's grip with his other hand because his limbs were just not cooperating, Dean laid the gun aside and turned back to Sam, swallowing hard as the world tilted and spun in his gaze. His stomach flipped and he threw himself to the side of the tree, vomiting violently into the snow, his sharp inhalations sounding like the whines of a kicked dog. He braced his ribs with his injured arm and held himself up off the ground with his right, his hand burning when it touched the snow. He coughed and spit out the acrid saliva that coated his tongue, panting slightly with the exertion of the attack.

Moving slower this time, he turned back to his brother, wondering why their clothes were stiff, the outermost edges frozen. He heard the rushing of the river a dozen feet away, and he scrubbed a hand over his face as he realized he couldn't remember a damn thing. Looking around, Dean froze as he saw that they were deep in a range of mountains he didn't quite recognize. Thinking hard and immediately cringing at the pain that came with it, he tried to remember what he'd apparently forgotten.

"Snow and a truck. My baby died. Witches? Funky moose lamps. Baby died again. Bell housing and planetary and the fuck is that?" he whispered as he saw a red trail of blood leading from the edge of the river to where he and his brother were laying.

Shaking himself physically, Dean knew that red was bad, especially when it was leaking from Sam's body. Dragging himself closer to his brother (because his ankle really, _really_ didn't enjoy any kind of weight on it), Dean tapped his cheek and then started shaking him by the shoulder, trying at both motions twice before his limbs cooperated with him.

"Sam? C'mon, Sam. Wake up. Let's go, kid. Up and at 'em," he called jerkily, running through a litany of customary greetings while he did an initial check of his brother for injuries.

The low groan that echoed in Sam's chest was punctuated by too-fast and too-shallow breathing, and it didn't change as Dean ran a hand over an unnatural bump in his right leg. Frowning, he rubbed his hand on his leg to get some sensation back and palpated Sam's femur again, wincing in sympathy as he felt a sharp rise a few inches above his knee. The discoloration on the jeans increased from the gentle pressure of Dean's hand, and it turned the blue denim a dark rust color.

"Compound fracture. Dammit, Sammy. Can't you do a bad thing halfway?" Dean growled, his unease growing exponentially.

Sam's eyes fluttered and Dean shifted his attention, ignoring the steady trickle of blood from his right ear and the way the world danced in front of him. Sam tilted his head slightly then stilled immediately, apparently thinking better of it, and then he finally opened his eyes. Dean gave Sam a tired grin, hoping he'd masked his fear well.

"Hey there, Sammy. Nice of you to join us in the land of the living snowmen. I wouldn't suggest moving just yet; you're got a pretty nasty break in your right leg, and I think you did some crap to your lungs. Or your bones. The...the bones around your lungs. The...crap. Not the crap. Other end. ...Ribs! That's right. Ribs. Your ribs hurt?" he asked, realizing he was both rambling and slurring his words, his concentration leaping from place to place.

Sam blinked a few times, then shook his head, and a tingle of panic crossed his face.

"No, they don't hurt. At all," he answered, and his words were hollow.

Frowning, Dean shook his head hard, trying to chase away the cobwebs; all that did was make it hurt worse. He found himself inexplicably falling sideways and caught himself with his bad hand. Sucking in a sharp breath, he cradled his arm to his chest and tried to steady himself as the world continued to tilt.

"What's that mean? I'm not quite firing on all cylinders, Sam. Ya gotta...gotta help me out here," Dean said, his breath hitching as his side burned when he moved.

There wasn't even a shift of motion at his words and the older hunter frowned down at the younger. He gave him a nudge with his leg and caught his eyes with his own.

"I mean, Dean, that they don't hurt. I don't hurt," Sam responded, his voice straining.

Dean shrugged slightly, wincing as his head fought the movement.

"What's that mean? I need some help here, Sammy. What's that mean?" he asked breathlessly, unintentionally repeating his question.

Sam grew increasingly agitated, minute shakes increasing in his muscles, and he bit out, "I don't hurt, Dean. Anywhere!"

"That's not a bad thing, Sam. Hurting's bad. Not hurting is good. Or you're hypothermic. But you're awake, so I don't think that's it. So I don't think that's bad. That's not bad, is it, Sammy? Is that bad, Sammy?" he asked in a hushed voice, unwillingly closing his eyes as he leaned back against the tree behind him.

He heard Sam saying something, but it was drowned out by the incessant ringing in his ears. Sam's voice grew softer and softer, and Dean hovered on the edge of unconsciousness for an incalculable amount of time. Then Sam was shouting, his voice scratching painfully over Dean's migraine, and he shied away from the noise while bringing up a hand to rub at his eyes.

"M'awake, Sam. Stop screaming already," he murmured, nausea and fatigue fighting for dominance in his head.

"I mean it, Dean. You've got to stay awake. You can't fall asleep again. Recite mullet rock song lyrics or something – I don't care – but you have got to open your eyes and stay awake," Sam demanded insistently.

Unable to stop himself from listening to orders that sounded oh so much like his father's, Dean opened his eyes slowly and searched for his brother. Finding him exactly where he left him, he frowned.

"Whatcha still doing on the ground, Sam? You hurt?" he asked softly, real alarm beginning to filter through his hazed mind.

Dean moved a few inches forward, his mind piecing together a patchwork of suspicions, his mind clear enough for fear. He swallowed back rising nausea that had nothing to do with his concussion. He let his eyes wander over his brother's too-still form slowly, mind pulling for any and all possible explanations, ignoring the pain the mental searching caused.

"I tried to tell you earlier, Dean. I don't hurt anywhere," Sam snapped, sharp anxiety rising to the surface.

Breathing slowly with forced deliberateness, Dean felt his attention shift firmly to his brother's neck, and no amount of dizziness would sway his focus. Reaching forward with his good hand, Dean absently shushed Sam's panicked questions with foreign-sounding words and carefully felt along the sides of his neck. Sam winced at the contact of his cold fingers against his skin, and Dean slipped his hand under his jacket collar to feel the base of his neck.

There, just above his shoulder blades, Sam stopped tensing at his frigid touch, right at the site of the shattered bones in the middle of his spine.

For a half second, Dean shut his eyes and prayed with everything he had that he was back in hell and this was just another one of Alastair's tricks.

But when he opened his eyes, he was still sitting in the cold snow, half-dead himself, next to his paralyzed brother.

"Dean? What the hell is it?" Sam asked quickly, his eyes registering his brother's stricken facade.

Seriously concussed, bleeding, frozen, and shredded mentally and physically, Dean was still Superman. And Superman didn't fall out of the sky and crash into the pavement at some poor kid's feet.

"You smacked yourself good, Sammy. Er, the rock did. I think. Boulder. Something big and heavy and mean. Bruising's all over. And swelling. Nerves just strangling. Kinda like...um..." Dean trailed off and squinted as he tried to think through the dark fog surrounding his mind.

He cocked his head to the side and his expression was reminiscent of a lost puppy's. His fingers in his left hand twitched and his right hand clenched and relaxed repeatedly. There was almost a solid minute of silence as Dean knelt in the snow, swaying in an invisible breeze, his unevenly dilated pupils staring off into the distance, locked on something even he couldn't see. Finally, he seemed to return to himself, and he looked down at his brother and held up his hand and squeezed it into a fist.

"Like that."

His lie was masterful, even in the grip of a class three concussion, but Sam tracked his features carefully; he'd had a lifetime to learn his brother's tells. Whether or not he believed Dean, the older hunter couldn't tell, but either way Sam's hysteria didn't decrease.

"I can't move, Dean. I can't fucking move! And it's like I can't breathe. It's tight and I'm seeing spots and I can't breathe!" he shouted, squeezing his eyes shut as fear bloomed full on his face.

Immediately Dean shoved aside pervasive exhaustion and place his good hand on his brother's cheek, grabbing his attention and anchoring him. He leaned over and forced his gag reflex to the side as the motion made nausea rise anew within him; it was stronger this time.

"Listen to me, Sam. You're going to be fine. All right? You'll be fine. You'll be fine. Just gotta get angel wings to zap us out. Hospital'll get you on your feet in no time," he reassured with a cracking voice, almost choking on the ironic word.

But Sam just grew more worked up, his eyes blazing in fear.

"Cas is gone, Dean."

Time slowed for Dean, his own mouth moving in slow motion.

"Wait, what?"

Sam bit his lip as frustrated tears brimmed in his eyes.

"I kept trying to tell you. He's out of touch for a few days. He told me at the hotel."

And that's when the floor fell out from underneath Dean's feet. The dizziness that he'd barely managed to hold at bay returned with a vengeance, and his chest tightened to a point of nauseating discomfort. He vaguely remembered patting Sam on the cheek twice and whispering some useless and meaningless platitude before crumbling to the ground and passing out.

Sam watched him fall beside him, his own fear doubling in an instant. He tested himself experimentally, his breath coming in harsh pants as he realized he wasn't dreaming, he wasn't dead, he wasn't drugged.

He was paralyzed. From the neck down, he couldn't move. He could control his breathing to a degree, but it was mostly autonomous. And shallow. And he was sure it would be painful if he could _fucking move_!

Turning his head he felt his terror intensify. Dean was curled up in a fetal position, facing him, the snow below him turning pink as he watched. Blood dripped very slowly from his right ear to the ground, and more blood flowed sluggishly from his chest and side. His left wrist was bent at an unnatural angle, and craning his neck as much as he could, Sam saw his left ankle was tilted oddly. The way his right arm was automatically curled around his chest indicated some damage to his ribs, too. The world was still for a moment before Dean twitched slightly. Hopes raised, Sam stared hard at him, waiting.

What he was expecting never happened. Instead, Dean began to seize, his body curling up smaller than Sam thought possible. His head curled down until his chin was tucked against his chest, the movement pulling on the wounds Sam couldn't see, staining the snow with more blood.

"No. No, no, no! Goddammit, Dean! Stop! Please, Dean, just stop!" Sam begged, tears flowing openly down his cheeks as his brother jerked violently in the snow. "I'll stop going to Ruby, Dean! I'll stop with the powers and everything. God, please, just stop! Just stop!"

Time stretched longer than Sam could stand, and eventually Dean lay quiet in the snow, his only movement too-soft breathing. He was still folded in on himself, his body spilling its life blood to the snow, but as the seizure ended, the flow slowed drastically. Sam watched him carefully, counting his breaths, and found the loneliness in the silence unbearable.

"Dean? C'mon, man. You've gotta wake up, Dean. You gotta wake up," Sam said softly, his words coming as stiltedly as his breath.

But Dean didn't move again, and Sam closed his eyes tight. He knew that his brother had been lying to him. He couldn't move. He remembered smacking against a rock at the river's edge and losing all feeling in his body. He remembered praying, as the water tossed him about, that he'd come to sore, scared, but relieved and whole. He could barely remember slurred Latin phrases passing over his head, prayers of protection and deliverance murmured in his brother's voice.

Swallowing against the growing tightness in his breathing, the feeling almost-but-not-quite there, Sam stared up at the midday sun and began the long, painful process of determining his future.

If he had one.

* * *

End of Chapter Five


	6. Chapter 6

Title: He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother: Chapter Six

Author: Lucky Gun

Disclaimer: Own nothing except for the story concept. All characters and devices within are owned by Eric Kripke. Think it's cause he's so awesome? I think it's cause he's so awesome.

Summary: Dean breaks, shatters into a thousand pieces, and falls to the ground. Sam and Cas try to pick up the pieces and end up cutting themselves in the process.

A/N: Stick with me, people. Gets really dark here. But keep reading!

* * *

It was almost sunset when Dean moved again. Sam watched him with a tired expression, concerned. Dean shifted slightly, his face betraying the pain he usually hid, and suddenly his eyes snapped open, wild and uncontrolled. He rolled to his back and scrambled backwards, smashing into the tree behind him, crying out as his wrist and ankle protested the movement violently.

"Dean! Dean, calm down! Relax, man!" Sam shouted himself hoarse in those few words, unable to do anything but watch.

His brother's attention swiveled his way, his eyes wide and scared, and he blinked hard. There were several seconds of tense silence before Dean seemed to deflate a little. He slowly looked around and his fight for memory was visible on his face.

"We're in Colorado. We tried to get to the Native American society to find info on what we think is a witch doing some nasty killing. Car died. We walked. Fell into the river. Been here about a day now," Sam summed up in between the inhalations that were getting difficult to pull.

Dean blinked again, his emotions unguarded, and Sam saw when his fractured memory returned; he could see the effort it took to raise the walls within his mind. Shuffling his way back over to his brother, Dean tried for the concentration he needed.

"You okay, Sammy?" he asked gently, his good hand automatically going to Sam's forehead in a gesture that was as comforting as it was uncomfortable.

Seeing no reason to worry his brother further, Sam just nodded slightly, refusing to admit his trouble breathing. He shouldn't have tried, though. Dean leaned forward and frowned, his eyes somehow focusing on his brother's face.

"Your lips are blue."

The statement was flat, as though all affect had fled him. Sam immediately attempted to shrug and almost broke down sobbing when nothing happened. Dean ran his hand through his brother's long hair carefully, soothingly, quieting him like one would a child.

"Must've punctured a lung. Something...pneumo...thorax...Dad knew. I've gotta get you out of here. I need...I need the car. I need dad. I need Cas. Cas. Castiel. Pray to Cas, just pray to Cas," he whispered to himself as he closed his eyes.

Biting his lip, Sam found himself repeating that awful truth; "Told you before, Dean. Cas isn't around right now. He's gone for a few days, remember?"

Dean's eyes opened and he cast an unreadable glance at his brother. Sam said nothing, and Dean cursed softly.

"No Cas. No Cas. No car. No...wait. Gun," he abruptly said, turning to grab his Colt from its bed in the snow and falling sideways in his attempt.

Sam shouted his name as Dean curled in on himself again, groaning lowly. His back and chest were on fire, his side still burning, and he panted around the vise at his ribs. Lifting his head slowly, he reached for the weapon again.

"Too far to the right, Dean. Reach left," Sam instructed, helping Dean work around his double vision.

Grasping the gun with an overwhelming sense of triumph, Dean mentally counted the number of bullets he had loaded into the gun at the hotel; that seemed like a lifetime ago. Eight. Seven in the mag, one in the chamber. Eight chances to flag down help.

"Dean, what are you doing?" Sam asked breathlessly, frowning as he watched his brother painfully inspect the weapon with his damaged hand.

Wincing as his back pulled with the motion, Dean maneuvered the weapon from one hand to another and panted, "We've got eight shots. These are .45's. They'll attract the attention of someone. Just gotta get someone. Anyone. Gotta get help."

If he noticed Sam's hesitation, he didn't mention it. Instead, he used his good hand to cock the weapon and aimed it towards the low winter sun, covering his ears with his arm and shoulder. He pulled the trigger, and, as the bullet lashed out of the chamber and the explosive sound echoed through the immediate area, he cried out and dropped the gun, curling in a ball beside his brother as his head rang mercilessly.

"Dean! Dammit – didn't you think before you did that?" Sam shouted angrily, frustrated helplessness dominating his features.

Dean moaned lowly and murmured something unintelligible. Sam swallowed as a painful tickle crossed his throat; he needed to cough but he didn't know how. He cleared his throat as best he could and tried to speak.

"Dean, just...stop, okay?" he gasped, his breath difficult to catch. "You're hurting yourself doing that, there's no one out here that can hear it, and it's the middle of hunting season so shots aren't too uncommon of an occurrence. So just stop."

Dean crawled closer to him and shook his head slowly, his features confused.

"Can't stop, Sammy. Gotta get you home. Gotta find help. Gotta get you out of here," he whispered, his single-minded determination evident in his low voice.

Voice cracking, Sam responded with words he'd practiced during the day.

"I can barely breathe, Dean. I can't move. This is as far as I'm going."

It took just a second for Dean to realize what Sam was saying, what he was asking. Scampering to his feet, he shook his head fiercely and snatched his gun from the ground, staggering as pain slammed into him from all directions. The world spun around him at dizzying speeds and his stomach twisted in his gut. His arm trembled as he raised his gun again, aiming randomly, and he popped off six shots in rapid succession, finally biting through his lip with his teeth as his next to last bullet tore up through the sky; his training was too ingrained to allow him to waste his last piece of ammo on something so frivolous.

The resounding roar fell away and Dean stood there silently for a moment, leaning slightly against the gentle breeze, his back to his brother. Sam stared at him, something stronger than concern crossing his face, and he sucked in as deep a breath as he could manage to speak. As he opened his mouth, whatever Dean was waiting for didn't show, and his brother crumpled to the ground in a heap, hitting the ground with a resounding thud.

"Dean! Son of a...DEAN!"

There were several soft moans from his brother, and Sam kept a running commentary, doing his best to get the older hunter to move closer to him.

"Just come this way, Dean. Just move this direction. Don't use your left arm or your left leg. Just slide over here," he murmured softly, breath almost nonexistent.

Inch by inch, Dean crawled slowly towards his brother, relying entirely on Sam's directions, dragging the Colt with him. The younger hunter felt a jab of pity as he saw the blood dripping down Dean's chin, four perfectly divided serrations running across his lower lip like a bad joke. His eyes were unfocused and his pupils contracted at different rates as they raked over the scenery. But he crawled towards Sam unerringly, following his words without thought, his mind flooded with so much pain and imminent loss that he couldn't even think.

Finally reaching his brother, Dean collapsed to the ground next to him, his face buried against Sam's shoulder, his body shaking. Sam uneasily endured the creepy-crawly sensation of numbness as he saw the touch he couldn't feel. Dean shook harder, and it took his brother a moment to realize he was crying.

"Don't do that, Dean," Sam scolded lightly, and Dean raised his head painfully, his tears never slowing.

Sam eyed the gun in the other hunter's hand and his brother followed his gaze, focusing on the weapon intently even as he erupted in denial.

"No way, Sam. I'm not...I can't let that...I won't," he snarled, vicious in his fear. Sam's concentration didn't waver, and he added on impulse, "I'd rather die."

It took a moment, but Sam remembered the reference; he'd been possessed by the demon known as Meg, and even after all the coaxing she'd done, Dean still hadn't shot him. He'd said he'd rather die.

"You need medical attention, Dean. You're not going to make it out of here dragging my sorry ass," Sam started, gasping his words as air was hard-fought, and he continued speaking in soft, matter-of-fact tones as his brother turned horrified eyes towards him. "I'm dying. I'm paralyzed. I've got nothing I can do now, Dean. I've got nothing left to give to the fight. Even if I live, if we make it out of here, I'll be too easy a target for demons and monsters and hunters alike. I'm not going to burden you with that weight for the rest of your life."

The sun began sinking below the mountain's edge, and the two Winchesters were lit up in a perfect ray of fading light.

"You're not heavy; you're my brother," Dean replied brokenly, his visage more child-like than Sam had ever seen it, filled with devotion and misery.

Sam responded tiredly, "Always will be, Dean. But I can't go like this. If I'm going, if I've got a choice, it's going to be my way." He hesitated, pulling in a shallow breath, and faintly added, "I'm scared, Dean, and I'm worn out. Please."

Dean's conflicted and concussed mind heard the plea and the truth of the words spoken, and he knew what he had to do.

"I'm the older brother. I always take care of Sam. That's my job. That's my job. Dad said if I couldn't save him, I'd have to kill him. He was right. Dad was right. Dad was right," he said silently, his lips moving wordlessly, the world freezing for one brief moment before the hell it was resumed.

Looking down at his brother, Dean nodded slightly.

"I'll take care of you, Sammy, just like always," he weakly reassured, fresh tears burning his eyes, and the true meaning of his words weren't lost on his brother.

Sam blinked back his own tears and fears and gave a thick smile even as his vision started to tunnel.

"I know you will, Dean," he whispered, claustrophobia folding in on him.

He felt a bit of panic as his breath stuttered for a moment before tentatively resuming. Beside him, he heard his brother shift and he blinked back the darkness as well as he could. Dean carefully pulled Sam's head into his lap, taking care to jostle his neck as little as possible, and he set his gun to the side as he used his good hand to smooth his brother's hair back from his forehead.

"Did my best, Sam," he choked; Sam said nothing, though tears started slipping down his face, and Dean sniffed, "I couldn't save you, Sammy. I couldn't save you."

Sam's breaths were coming harder, now, the pauses between them increasing, and Dean reached for the Colt three times before he managed to grab it. There was a growing desperation in Sam's eyes, his need to control his death accelerating rapidly, and Dean nodded slightly.

Bending over, he touched his forehead to Sam's for a moment before leaning back a bit, his right arm moving of a will not his own. Locking his eyes on his brother's, Dean poured every ounce of love and fear and pride he had into his gaze.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't shoot his brother. He should've saved an extra bullet, left one more for himself, because he couldn't live with this. But this was what Sam wanted. And Dean had already gone to hell for him once; he might as well do it again.

Forcing himself to ignore the feel of the trigger against his finger, Dean watched as Sam's inhalations faltered and didn't resume. The fear of suffocating to death covered his brother's face, and Dean's heart froze inside him.

"I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm so sorry."

Then there was a loud report and a flash, and the terror that had been building in Sam's eyes gave way to a peaceful expression. He blinked once, then twice, and then his eyes slid shut for the final time, the last of his hard-won air slipping from his lungs like a fading breeze. His tears slowed, then stopped, and Dean never took his gaze from Sam's still face. He felt his brother's heartbeat fade away as the .45 slug finished its work in his chest, the final rays of the day slowly disappearing behind the mountain.

Barely breathing, barely able to understand what he'd done, Dean started as comprehension suddenly flooded his face, horror and fear dominating his expression. Ducking down, he dropped the gun and immediately placed his hands over the hole in Sam's chest, applying bruising pressure to the gaping wound.

"No no no! Sam! No, no. Oh my God, what did I do? Oh God...just breathe, Sam! Come on, breathe!" he cried, eyes locked on Sam's unmoving features, praying for some sign of life. "No! You can't die on me, Sam! You can't leave me here alone, you bastard! Son of a bitch – SAM!"

He scrambled over the snow to get a better position, locking his elbows as he leaned fully on his brother, performing CPR as he kept pressure on the wound. In between each compression, he kept his focus on his brother's face.

"Come on, Sam, come on! Not this way, little brother. Not this way. Dammit, Cas! Where the fuck are you? Come on, Sam...breathe, Sam!" he ordered, breathlessly leaning over and placing his ear close to Sam's mouth.

He waited ten seconds, half a minute, a minute, two minutes. Snarling at the world and life and death and threatening any reaper that dared touch his brother's soul, Dean moved to continue compressions, his own body screaming with the abuse, the world tilting alarmingly with his motions.

"Don't do this to me, Sammy. Come on, Sam. Don't die, please! Please, Sam," he panted, the exertion pulling at his mind.

Abruptly dropping to the side, his hands slipping from Sam's chest, Dean gagged on the bile that rose up his throat, his ear suddenly gushing a rapid torrent of blood as the world grayed in and out of existence. Fighting desperately against the darkness that threatened to consume him, Dean lay curled in the snow, gasping against the pain that echoed from his head and his heart.

Groaning against the nausea and fear, Dean struggled to push himself up, tilting sideways as the world rolled in his vision. Blinding rapidly to attempt to clear his vision, he looked down at his brother's cooling body, the reality of the situation settling heavily on his shoulders.

Placing his hand on Sam's arm, Dean murmured, "Come back, Sam. Please. You've gotta come back."

But the mountain was silent and dark, the soft light of a rustler's moon glistening off the snow. Dean stared at the hole in Sam's heart, the same hole he'd blown through the middle of his life, his future.

"Oh, God...oh, God. I killed him. I killed him. Oh God... why did I...I killed Sam. I killed my Sammy. I killed him. Oh God..."

Barely able to think, practically unable to breathe, Dean reached for his gun. He lifted the Colt to his own head and pulled the trigger, listening as it clicked empty.

Again.

And again.

And again.

* * *

End of Chapter Six


	7. Chapter 7

Title: He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother: Chapter Seven

Author: Lucky Gun

Disclaimer: Own nothing except for the story concept. All characters and devices within are owned by Eric Kripke. Think it's cause he's so awesome? I think it's cause he's so awesome.

Summary: Dean breaks, shatters into a thousand pieces, and falls to the ground. Sam and Cas try to pick up the pieces and end up cutting themselves in the process.

A/N: Don't worry. I hate death fics. Stick with it!

* * *

Just as the sun was about to set, there was a flutter of motion in front of the abandoned Impala, and Castiel stepped around the cold car with a perplexed look on his face. Frowning, he turned and took in the immediate area, eyes drawn to the twin sets of footprints leading from the car up the road, back towards town. The angel froze for a moment, a deep fear pulling at him as he recognized an otherworldly aura on the air.

"There's another presence nearby," he said aloud to himself, and he felt an undercurrent of purpose and sadness in the impression. "I must find Sam and Dean. Immediately."

He closed his eyes and searched for them spiritually, frowning as he realized he couldn't sense them anywhere. This was unnatural. Enochian symbols or not, Castiel always knew where the Winchesters were. The angel tilted his head slightly and focused instead on the leftover echo in the air. He knew it. He was sure of it. He'd felt it before. If only...

His concentration was broken when a crash in the stillness shattered the evening's calm. He wrenched open his eyes quickly and looked the opposite direction of the town as a distant echo of gunfire rang over the hills. Eyes wide, Castiel realized he knew the sound of the weapon, and pinned it as Dean's pistol. He quickly flew further up the side of the cliff face beside him, attempting to gain a better view of the area. His eyes tracked the river as it flowed away from the car in the direction the shot came from. It wound deep into the mountains, and as he stared hard into the distance, still searching with his soul for the hunters, he heard another shot. And another. And another.

Six shots rang out in quick order, one right after the other. Swallowing uneasiness he still wasn't accustomed to feeling, Castiel began hiking. He was uncertain flying would be the best method for exploring; he was liable to overshoot the brothers and miss them. He could usually detect their life forces, but he now felt he may have relied too heavily on that ability. Instead, he began using what Sam had once called 'intuition' during one of the many sessions in which the brothers tried to teach him about emotion. Castiel's concern grew as he realized he didn't want to lose his tentative friendship with the two humans. They had grown on him too much. Even when Dean had called Sam an idiot and told the angel to rely on good ol' fashioned 'gut work' (something Castiel was still attempting the define), he had enjoyed the banter. Hence his desire to find the two brothers; it was more than duty to him.

He walked steadily through the snow, never losing his footing, the thick powder pulling uselessly at his shiny dress shoes. He covered the ground quickly enough, and given the tumultuous fear in his mind, he wasn't surprised to see wildlife fleeing from his usually serene spirit. The river churned angrily on his right, and a nagging feeling above his vessel's belly button caused him to stop. Curious if this was the 'gut work' Dean had mentioned, Castiel turned and perused the riverbank quickly. A clinking noise at the water's edge caught his attention, and he hurried forward, kneeling next to the rushing flow.

Caught on a partially submerged log was an all-too-familiar duffel. Grabbing it and rifling through it quickly, Castiel found weapons and ammo, nothing else.

"They expected trouble, then," he determined quietly, and he slung the soaking wet bag on his back and hooked it over his shoulders, certain that the brothers would be grateful for its return.

As he stood and the sun finally set, there was another shot, this one slightly closer than the others had been, but still fairly distant. Searching fruitlessly once again for the hunters' spiritual presence, Castiel shook his head and resigned himself to a long walk. He continued in his previous direction, keeping the river at his right, reasoning that the brothers would be doing the same thing. As he walked, oblivious of the darkness, he worriedly began analyzing the reasons Dean would have for firing his weapon. Castiel had what one would assume was the majority of their weapons; if they were in a fight, they would have rationed their bullets carefully, using them only if they were close enough for a kill shot. And six shots in a row...one would imagine they were very close. The final shot ten minutes later was what worried the angel the most. There were very few reasons he could conceive for firing one shot after so many others, none of them good.

"I am gone for two days and they manage to get themselves stranded, lost, and in a gunfight," Castiel growled lowly, his ire raising with his anxiety. "I ask them to refrain from reckless activity, and instead of simply following orders, they drive a forty year old antique vehicle up the side of a very large mountain, in the middle of winter, in search of God only knows what."

Pausing to survey his surroundings, he pulled a waterproof flashlight needlessly from the duffel he'd rescued, remembering one of Dean's impromptu lessons: always have a cover story and act to support it. Keeping this in mind, he began sketching out a plausible scenario as he walked.

"I'm searching for my friends. They were lost while hiking in the area. I have weapons because there may be bears. I am in a suit because...I'm a very dedicated tax accountant. Yes. That's convincing," he decided, though he fleetingly hoped he wouldn't need to use it.

He hiked through the night, passing the beam of the flashlight along his path, maintaining what he assumed would eventually be a useless cover story. The mountain grew steep, the route he'd chosen along the river increasingly dangerous, and he was forced to slow his pace. Still, unencumbered by exhaustion, hunger, and thirst, he managed to keep moving at a decent clip. The flashlight remained working through divine energy, and Castiel kept a careful lookout for any sign of the brothers. But there wasn't another shot, nor shouts, nor screams, nor any other indications of the ones he sought. Intermittent spiritual testing revealed nothing, either.

Dawn was just breaking over the edge of the world, the sky red and inflamed like a poisoned wound, and Castiel had almost given up on his hiking/man-of-the-world approach to the search when he came around a bend and found himself face to face with a sight that cracked his soul.

"Oh, no. No. My God..."

* * *

Dean stared at his brother's slack features, his gun never wavering from its spot at the side of his head. His finger moved automatically, squeezing the trigger every few seconds, the darkest part of his heart wishing that a bullet would magically materialize in the chamber, just once.

It never did.

He sat silently in the cold, his brother's body flat and stiff on the ground, his head and shoulders still laying in Dean's lap. He felt the tenuous hold he had on reality break slowly, his mind's attention bouncing between the past and present. Distantly he realized he was freezing, starving, and thirsty.

As if he had any right to be.

He had murdered his family. He had destroyed the only person that had ever been able to rely on him. He had killed the one thing he'd managed not to completely screw up in his life. He had coolly and calmly placed a bullet in the beating heart of his baby brother.

This thought finished shattering what was left of his psyche, and he dropped the gun, ducking his head as a sob tore from his throat. His head pounded and his vision shifted, his gut wrenching inside of him, and his world and memories collided in one awful, sickening moment, leaving him adrift in confusion and fear.

Folding himself over Sam's corpse, Dean gripped his shirt as he cried into his brother's shoulder, taking no more notice of his own wounds. It was an incongruous notion he would worry about something so pointless when he was holding his little brother's dead body.

His brother, whom he'd killed.

Curled around Sam's body in the dimly-lit night, Dean found himself transported back to hell, reliving Alastair's deceptions. He'd been tortured there – skinned alive, bones gnawed on by hell hounds, eyes and tongue and ears plucked from his body like petals from a rose – and the master of pain that he was, Alastair hadn't stopped there. He'd brought in other demons made to look, act, and talk like Sam, and killed them, tortured them, destroyed them. Some days he'd turned the tables, and demons wearing the faces of Dean's family had been the ones to put the blade to his skin.

But never, in all of the demon's dark, terrible imaginings, had he ever thought to force Dean to kill Sam. He should've tried it. A righteous man would've shed blood in a day, not thirty years.

Pushing himself up, Dean stared through the darkness and his tears at his brother's face, knowing that life would never – could never – be right again. He couldn't hide from what he'd done in the pit, but Sam had lessened it, tempered it, made it something heavy and strangling but bearable. And now? Now he was exactly what Sam had been daring to become, what others assumed he himself had become.

A killer. A monster. Evil.

He was beyond salvation, unable to be pardoned, his hell-battered soul a waste of deliverance. He was the ultimate proof of the perdition of man: a soldier struck down by a deal with the devil to save his tainted brother's life, he forsook the sacrifices angels and God had made for him to repay that debt with the blood of his family. He had shattered his promises to the world and himself with a single, solitary, lonely and cold 1911 Colt.

The night passed slowly, though time lost all meaning to Dean. What could possibly matter to him, now that Sam was dead? So he sat silently, holding an incessant vigil over his brother's body, his gun eventually finding its way back into his hand. He saw nothing but Sam's face in his mind, and heard nothing but his brother's plea for release. He thought of nothing but his own damnation and his own selfish desire for the pain to just end.

He laid his injured hand on his brother's gore-splattered chest, the blood cold and frozen against his bare skin, and he leaned back against the tree behind him, his glazed eyes finding the bright stars above a suitable focus point. His good hand rested beside him on top of the pine needle bed that covered the snow, the Colt clutched tightly in his palm. The misery and fear that encompassed his mind spilled from his lips in dark mantra.

"I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm sorry. Don't leave me alone, Sammy. I'm sorry."

He knew he couldn't do this alone – saving people, hunting things, the family business – without Sam. How could he continue the family business without any family left? How could he save anyone when he couldn't even save his brother? As the stars wheeled overhead and the earth continued to turn even as his own world fell apart around him, another question caught his waning attention.

"Am I what we always hunted? Am I, Sam? Can you tell me? Can you answer me? Am I what we hunted, Sammy?"

So he asked the darkness of the night and the darkness in his soul, hellfire illuminating his own doubts even as the sun began to illuminate the horizon.

* * *

Castiel stood silently in the snow for an unknown measure of time, his blue eyes shining as he looked across the ice at the two brothers who'd become like family to him. Like a bad cosmic joke, the drag marks through the snow from the river were highlighted red, the pool of blood surrounding the boys creating a giant, numbing exclamation point.

Castiel's gaze raked over the scene, immediately putting together the story of what had occurred. He stepped forward slowly, approaching the scene quietly and calmly, though his mind was anything but serene. Apart from his rage and fear and terror, he was busily praying for guidance, for permission, for any kind of chance of giving the hunters some sort of fairy tale ending, complete with life from death and a ride off into the sunset.

"Dean?" he called softly when he was ten feet away, his concern growing as he saw no recognition or even a spark of life in the older brother's eyes.

The hunter's hollow gaze shifted slowly, his focus moving from the light blue sky above to the angel in front of him, but he didn't move or speak. Frowning, Castiel set the duffel he'd retrieved to the ground beside him, intentionally moving as slow as he could manage. His eyes dropped to the silent and unmoving corpse resting half in Dean's frozen grasp, half on the tinted snow. Swallowing back a wave of pity at the single bullet hole in Sam's chest, Castiel finished piecing together the events of the night, his skin chilling despite his divine protection from the elements.

Catching sight of the silver gun in Dean's hand, he held out a forcefully-steadied hand and murmured softly, "Give me the gun, Dean. It's okay."

Blinking at the order, Dean looked at the weapon in his palm and then looked back up at Castiel, the dull look in his usually animated gaze unchanging. Slowly, he raised the gun and looked at it like it was something alien for a few moments before he ejected the clip with his left hand, the pain that the wrenched limb should've given him not registering on his face. Arms shaking with cold and pain and exhaustion, he held out the two pieces of the weapon. The angel carefully took them, and he closed his eyes tight as he realized that the clip was empty, the true meaning of the multiple shots he'd heard becoming immediately clear.

Shoving the gun into the duffel without a thought, Castiel ignored Sam's lifeless body for the moment and instead focused on Dean. Kneeling next to the hunter, he carefully reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, a nagging feeling blooming in his gut. Dean looked at him blankly, his facial expression remaining as frozen as the world around them. Castiel cocked his head and frowned, all his empathy swimming to the surface.

"Are you injured?" he asked quietly, and the several seconds of silence afterward unnerved him.

Dean said nothing, though he blinked sluggishly at the question. Castiel glanced down at the body of the younger hunter, a grimace crossing his face as he realized Dean was sitting in a frozen puddle of his brother's blood.

Still fervently praying, Castiel redirected his attention to Dean.

"Dean, are you hurt?" he asked again, toying with the idea of simply healing him then and there, holy consequences be damned.

But Dean simply looked at him and whispered, "Am I what we always hunted?"

Taken aback, the angel glanced from the older hunter to the younger, his eyes watering, and with a thought, he whisked the three of them from the cold riverside to an unoccupied cabin Castiel had passed while looking for them. Dean didn't seem to notice the change of location, even as the snow gave way to hard but dry wood floors, the sparsely furnished living room of the summer cabin open and inviting.

As the aural echo of their arrival shuddered through the building, a small table radio in the corner jolted and flickered to life, and the soft notes of a piano drifted through the room. Castiel stared at the small box as heavy words floated through the room.

"I've seen your flag on the marble arch.  
Love is not a victory march;  
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah

Hallelujah, hallelujah.  
Hallelujah, hallelujah."

Turning sharply back to the brothers, he froze as he saw Dean focused on the radio, his eyes dark and dead, his grip tightening automatically on Sam's body. He seemed to hold his breath as the song continued. The angel hesitated as the signal faded into static for a few moments, abruptly coming back louder than before, and Dean jerked, breathing heavily, his hollow gaze sparking with pain and horror.

"Maybe there's a God above.  
And all I ever learned from love  
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you.

And it's not a cry you can hear at night.  
It's not somebody who's seen the light;  
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.

Hallelujah, hallelujah.  
Hallelujah, hallelujah.

Hallelujah, hallelujah.  
Hallelujah, hallelujah."

A moment later, the radio was in pieces on the floor, Castiel glaring at the offending box angrily. If he didn't know better, he'd say God had a sick sense of humor. Frowning, he absently wondered if he actually did know better. Shaking his head at the sacrilegious thought, he began praying again as he hurried over to the brothers.

Kneeling next to them, he placed a steady hand on Dean's shoulder and repeated, "Dean, are you injured?"

But whatever part of himself Dean had allowed to survive the reality of killing his brother had shattered along with the radio that now decorated the floor in a million tiny shards. His death grip on Sam had relaxed into nothingness, and his gaze was once again dull and lifeless. His eyes didn't move to Castiel as the angel carefully and reverently pulled the younger hunter from his lap, picking him up effortlessly and moving him to the worn but soft couch in the middle of the room. Laying Sam down on the dark plaid cushions, Castiel glanced at the empty fireplace, and flames roared cheerfully to life in a heartbeat.

Turning away from the fallen hunter, he moved back to Dean, frowning as he saw just how pale he was in the flickering light. He was staring at the spot on the floor where Sam had been, not registering the fact that his brother had been moved. He made no noise and didn't try to resist as Castiel knelt by him and carefully moved his jacket and flannel shirt aside. The angel's concern doubled as he found the sluggishly bleeding wound in Dean's side, the edges pink and hot, bits of wood and rock embedded in the center.

Castiel glanced up at the hunter, spotting the telltale signs of fever in his face: his eyes were sunken with pain and exhaustion, his skin was pale and cold while his cheeks blazed a worrisome red, and his entire body shook minutely. Pulling on what little he knew of human anatomy and biology, Castiel knew that some of what he was seeing were signs of shock, as well.

Glancing over his shoulder towards the couch, the angel was suddenly rewarded for his prayerful efforts when a wave of love and approval flowed over him, sweeter and thicker than honey. Sighing deeply in relief, Castiel redirected his attention to the man sitting despondently on the floor in front of him.

"Dean, I'm going to bring Sam back. He's not gone. Do you understand me?" he asked insistently, and Dean didn't even blink. Frowning, Castiel gently grabbed his shoulder, one hand over his own scarred palm print, and used the other to carefully turn Dean's face towards him as he said, "I'm going to heal your brother, Dean."

Whatever the angel was hoping for, it didn't happen. Dean's gaze remained as dim and lifeless as it had been when Castiel had found them beside the river. Swallowing hard, he very slowly leveled the hunter to his feet, catching him when his ankle gave out and his knees buckled. Taking his weight without a thought, Castiel moved to the fireplace, carefully lowering Dean to the floor beside the hearth. Dean made no noise or movement throughout the process, not even wincing when his torn back touched the hard stones of the chimney's flank. The angel hesitated as he considered his options; he wanted to heal Dean first, but he wasn't sure how much energy it would take to bring Sam back, and not even the Lord would be able to rescue him from Dean's wrath if he dared to put the older hunter ahead of the younger.

Touching Dean's shoulder once more, Castiel turned back to Sam and sat on the cushions next to his cold body, thankful that the couch was unusually wide and plush. Breathing deeply, he placed his hand on Sam's forehead, his fingertips barely touching his skin. Reaching out with his soul, he began to pull on the divine energy trail that linked Sam's soul and body, even in death. He tugged on it gently, coaxing the energy from its wanderings around the world; it was as dark and tarnished as he had warned Sam it was, oh so long ago, a few nights before, in the small travel lodge. As it came closer, he caressed it carefully, rolling it in love and comfort, protecting it from the fear that was plaguing him regarding Dean's state of mind.

He kept as his task for several minutes, taking more care than usual, desperate to bring Sam back to life in a better condition than he'd left. At the same time, he kept an ear trained to the real world, listening intently for any change in Dean. But there was no noise, no words, no sounds.

Just nothing.

After what seemed eternity but was only a quarter of an hour, Castiel finished pulling Sam's soul back into his body and healed him of his wounds. Forcing the blood to pump, bones to knit, skin to heal, and muscles to rebuild, the angel allowed himself a small smile of victory as he felt the man shift on the couch.

Opening his eyes and pulling back his hand, Castiel watched as Sam swallowed back the dryness in his throat and blinked several times. Feeling the drain on his soul, Castiel gave him a tired smile as Sam's expression morphed from confusion to shock.

"Welcome back, Sam," he said softly, nodding slightly. Sam's features took on a deadly determination and he asked harshly, "Where's Dean?"

Hesitating, Castiel looked towards the still and silent hunter, sorrow in his gaze. He sensed more than saw Sam's shock at the state of his brother, and he turned back to the newly-living man.

"What in God's name happened out there, Sam?"

* * *

End of Chapter Seven


	8. Chapter 8

Title: He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother: Chapter Eight

Author: Lucky Gun

Disclaimer: Own nothing except for the story concept. All characters and devices within are owned by Eric Kripke. Think it's cause he's so awesome? I think it's cause he's so awesome.

Summary: Dean breaks, shatters into a thousand pieces, and falls to the ground. Sam and Cas try to pick up the pieces and end up cutting themselves in the process.

A/N: And here's where we come to the crux of the storyline...

* * *

Had a herd of wild animals chosen that moment to stampede through the cabin, Sam wouldn't have noticed them. How could he focus on anything except his brother? Struggling to an upright position with help from Castiel, he thought hard about the question.

"I'm not...the car broke down. We were walking back to town. We somehow ended up in the river, and I got hurt, and I was dying, and Dean...oh, God. I asked him..." Sam's words trailed off into whispered horror, his eyes wide in fear. He turned back to the angel and confessed softly, "I asked him to kill me. And he did."

Sam saw the angel hold back recrimination forcefully, and he looked back towards his brother. Even with Sam's impression of Lazarus, Dean didn't move. Knowing his legs were still like jello, Sam didn't even try to stand. Instead, he slid off the couch and began crawling very slowly towards Dean.

"Dean? C'mon, man. I'm fine, okay? Everything's fine, Dean. Just come back," he murmured softly, unknowingly repeating the same words his brother had spoken the night before.

Fighting back a cough that reminded him far too much of his previous condition, Sam looked Dean over carefully, the whole of his attention focusing immediately and fully on the blood that was still dripping slowly and steadily from his right ear. Casting an urgent glance at Castiel, Sam hurried over to Dean and grabbed him by the shirtfront to steady him as he began to suddenly list to the side.

"Come on, Dean. Wake up and look at me," he ordered insistently, some relief entering him as the divine vessel the Winchesters were lucky enough to call friend knelt beside them. Casting a dark look over at Castiel, some of Sam's aggravation came to the forefront as he asked lowly, "Why didn't you heal him first?"

Staring at Sam, the angel seemed to search for words for a moment, finally saying in an equally low voice, "I worried his reaction if you were not whole when he was." The edge left Sam's eyes and a small grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he asked, "You mean, you were scared he'd beat the crap out of you."

Clearing his throat audibly, Castiel didn't answer, and Sam turned his attention back to Dean. Even with the close proximity, Sam's rebirth still didn't seem to register with his brother. If anything, he seemed more withdrawn. There was dried blood on his chin from where he'd bitten through his lip, and bruises covered the right side of his face, the darkness of them startling against the paleness of his skin. His head lolled as Sam pulled him upright against his chest, his eyes half lidded and dark. Unbidden, Sam found himself transported back in memory to the day he'd been killed by Azazel's plan, his brother catching him, reassuring him, losing him, the mud soaking up Dean's tears and his own blood. For a second, he could have sworn he felt the grit between his teeth.

Now all he could taste was his own fear.

"Can you heal him?" Sam asked, hating how childish he sounded in his plea of _Daddy, make it better._

Castiel seemed to hesitate a moment as he tested himself, weighing his own exhaustion against Dean's wounds, and finally nodded.

"It will be close, but I can at least heal him of the worst of his injuries," the angel promised, and Sam nodded, refusing to acknowledge the correlation between their situation and Castiel's words of warning two days before.

"_You will lose Dean before you are meant to. You are killing him"_

"Save him," Sam ordered, and Castiel didn't take offense, reaching out his hands to Dean's shoulders and closing his eyes in one fluid movement.

There were a few seconds of silence and stillness. Then a few more. Then a full minute.

"Something wrong, Cas?" Sam asked bluntly as the angel opened his eyes in shock.

Staring at the still-wounded man in front of him, Castiel stammered, "I don't know. I can't heal him. I can't...I can't do anything."

There was a hushed creak on the floor behind the group, and Sam and Castiel turned immediately, freezing in place. In the middle of the living room stood two very strange people. One was old and stooped, leaning heavily on a solid wooden cane in his right hand. As feeble as the one looked, the other looked that much healthier, and he stood tall beside his companion.

"What do we have here?" the older one asked, looking over the trio calmly.

Sam glanced at Castiel, but because of his positioning, he couldn't quite see his face, so he said, "I'm very sorry we intruded. My brother fell into the river and was hurt; we just needed a place to get him warm."

But tight words from Castiel stopped his further excuses.

"Save your breath, Sam. These are not the owners of this place. They're not even human."

The old man gave a small smile behind his white mustache and shook his head.

"Castiel, always quick on the take. I do miss you upstairs, my boy," he said fondly, and Sam's eyes darted from his friend to the strangers in the room and back again.

"He knows you? What the hell is going on?" he demanded, shifting slightly, moving his unresponsive brother behind him.

Castiel cast him an unreadable look and stated, "I sensed something – something that didn't belong – when I was searching for you and Dean. I couldn't find you the way I normally could have. And when I found Dean, he had an echo of a touch on him. I couldn't place it then. But I know it now."

Looking back at the other men, Castiel inclined his head slightly and said, "The younger one is Nitish. He is the assistant and companion to the other, Raziel." Sizing up the two silent men, Sam asked, "And they're...what? Demons? Could they bind your powers like that?"

Shaking his head minutely, Castiel's answer was cut off by Nitish, who gave the hunter a patient, if slightly offended, smile as he said, "We're not demons, Samuel Winchester. We're something a bit more powerful."

Frowning, Sam asked, "What, witches? Er, I mean, warlocks?"

Castiel said softly, "Raziel is the keeper of the wisdom of the Lord, and the highest among the archangels. He sits in the hall of God on the Christ's right hand. He is the strongest and oldest of all of us. They are not inhabiting vessels, either. Very few angels are strong enough to form their own tangible bodies in this way. They've been able to do it for several millennia. "

Paling several shades, Sam eyed the two strangers with renewed anxiety and asked softly, "And what are they doing here?"

Nitish glanced at Raziel, who sighed deeply and said, "Regretfully, we're here for your brother." Instinctively shifting to block Dean from the angels, Sam snapped, "You can't have him."

Raising an eyebrow, Raziel tapped his cane on the floor and asked, "And what do you think you could do to stop us, young man? You think you could use that demon blood you drink to whisk us away from here? Unless I'm mistaken, the addiction of your body and your mind has gone from you."

Sam opened his mouth to retort even as his cheeks flamed in embarrassment and shame, but Castiel's quick and questioning look caught him off guard. Hesitating, Sam tested himself gently, looking deep within to that tight, dark coil of fear and pain he always pulled upon when going after demons.

Instead, he found nothing.

Blinking, Sam looked up at the angels, shocked, and Nitish gave him a ghost of a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly.

"Castiel warned you angels would put a stop to your activities if they didn't cease, Samuel," he reminded.

Sam frowned, his focus shifting from the people in front of him to his brother behind him, confusion giving way to furious understanding. Surging to his feet, he glanced back at Dean, nauseating worry rolling through him as he realized his brother was unconscious, leaning against the stone chimney behind him, burning with fever.

Turning back around, Sam exploded, "It was you, wasn't it? You're the one that made us fall into the river. You're the one that started this whole damn thing!"

Nitish shrugged one shoulder, unapologetic as he amended, "Actually, I knocked out the car's transmission first. Had to get you two walking somehow."

Bristling, Sam snapped, "You're dead. Dean will _kill _you for touching his car."

Raziel sighed again and cast a heavy look at Nitish, who nodded slightly. Almost instantly, Sam and Castiel were flung across the room, held against the far wall by divine will alone. Grunting as his back connected with the shell of the solidly-built log cabin, Sam wrenched his eyes open and blinked through the sudden haze that clouded his vision. Immediately straining against the invisible force, Sam watched helplessly as Nitish approached his brother, a mixture of sadness and determination on his face.

"You stay the hell away from him!" Sam shouted, his mind replaying all the stupid things he'd said to his brother over the years, all the things he'd done, all the ways he'd betrayed him.

Raziel glanced over at him and said gently, "Calm yourself, Samuel. If we wanted to kill him, we would have simply done so. We have no need to use such surreptitious tactics."

Still unable to take his eyes off the younger-looking angel, Sam asked, "Then what do you want?"

Castiel was silent, though out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see him tensing against his own bindings. Nitish paused, waiting for some invisible signal from Raziel. The older angel turned to Sam and his green eyes were an iridescent swirl of light in his aged face.

"We are not here to kill him," he repeated, and Sam swallowed hard as the angel's eyes brightened exponentially.

"We are here to _break_ him."

* * *

Sam was dead.

What else could he care about, could he make himself care about, now that his biggest fear had come to pass? Worse yet, he'd been the one to kill him. What would his father think about him now? There'd be no reprieve for him in this world or the next, he knew. Every second chance of salvation had been destroyed when he'd pulled the trigger. He was bound for hell, a one way trip; this time there would be no reluctant but obedient angel to pull him from the pit. His body burned, sweat beading on his forehead, and he wondered if he was there already. Maybe he'd fallen prey to a hungry creature, or maybe the elements had finally taken him.

Maybe Castiel had come back from wherever he'd gone and blasted him back downstairs in a wave of holy fire and retribution.

"What have you done, Dean?"

Jerking in shock, Dean looked up, surprised he was actually still able to move. But he froze when he saw who was in front of him. Shaking slightly, he shrunk back against the solid wall behind him, wishing to God he could sink through the stones to some limbo beyond.

"I asked you a question, Dean. What have you done?"

Hot tears burned his eyes and branded his skin as they rolled down his face, and he vainly searched for some kind of defense. Breathing hard, he wondered off hand why his body hurt so much.

"I tried, dad. I'm sorry," he whispered, and he flinched when he father surged towards him a few steps, face livid, fists clenched.

"You're sorry? You killed my baby and you're _sorry_? I gave up my life for you, Dean. I gave a demon my soul for your pathetic life. All you ever had to do was protect him and in the end you _killed_ him!"

Dean scrambled backwards along the wall, gasping when his left wrist rolled under the movement. He slipped and slammed into the hard floor, groaning as wounds he didn't know he had made their presence known. His eyes stayed on his father, though, and he curled up slightly automatically as he saw the anger on the other man's face.

"I tried, dad. I couldn't save him. You said..."

Snarling like a wild thing, John lunged forward and grabbed Dean's jacket collar with both hands, hauling him bodily to his feet and slamming him against the wall. Dazed, the younger hunter idly wondered when hell had gotten so much like a simple log cabin.

"You're useless, Dean. Can't you do anything right? I told you if you couldn't save him from the yellow eyed demon's plans, _then_ you'd have to kill him. Azazel's dead, Dean. That you at least got done, even though I had to pretty much hand him to you on a silver platter. God, you're so pathetic!"

Blinking slowly as a painfully familiar haze settled over his vision and his ears started ringing incessantly, Dean did his best to focus on his father's face.

"Dad, please...he was dying. He wanted...it was all I could do for him," he whispered, more tears rolling down his cheeks as his finger flexed automatically, feeling the cold strength of the trigger against his skin.

"All you could do for him? You could've carried him out of there, Dean. You could've thought about someone other than yourself for a change. You could've actually known what the hell you were doing and fixed the car right the first time. You could've been the son I wanted, the son I tried to raise."

Dean cringed, his heart hammering in his chest, and he breathed brokenly, "But you said...you were proud, dad. In the hospital. You said you were proud."

John rolled his eyes and huffed, "Sam could've been listening in. Had to at least make him think I liked you. But you were just a mistake. Every step of the way you were a mistake. Should've been you the Shtriga went after. Should've been you Azazel and the other demons went after. Should've always been you."

Dean swallowed hard, some inner part of his soul crumbling with the words.

John paused and leaned closer to Dean, his anger practically tangible as he whispered, "I lasted over a hundred years in hell, Dean. I lasted that long without ever trading places on the rack. You lasted thirty. You're weak. You're pathetic. You're a waste."

Dean stopped breathing, his eyes bright as they tracked his father's face, and John murmured, "You're no blood of mine. You're not a Winchester. You're not my son."

There was a heartbeat of silence, and Dean blinked, abruptly finding himself a third of who he'd been, the outer shell of his psyche fading into nothingness. He swallowed hard as John stepped back, letting go of him, disgust on his face. Dean slid down the wall, his back painting a bright red trail of blood on the wood as he fell, and his gaze turned vacant as he slowly grasped the fact that he'd been disowned by the one person whose approval meant more to him than anything.

"I'm sorry, dad...John. I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry," he whispered, and John shook his head, turning away as he started to leave. "Too little, too late, as usual, Dean. Just go to hell."

Dean was vaguely aware of his father leaving, disappearing through some black door, and he closed his eyes tight as he felt the entirety of his world shift.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

"Goddammit! Stop it! He can't take this crap right now!" Sam shouted, his eyes watering as Dean wrapped his arms around his head, his knees pulled up to his chest as he rocked slowly against the wall.

Nitish hadn't said a word during what Sam could only classify as an attack, though he'd stepped forward quickly a few times and hauled Dean around by his jacket. But Dean had talked out loud, apparently seeing things and hearing things that weren't present in reality. And to say that Sam was angry was an understatement.

Raziel frowned as Nitish backed away, the holy aura of power ebbing away like a retreating tide. The younger angel turned towards him with a matching frown, concern on his face. Sam's eyes darted between Nitish and his brother, scared and pissed. He quickly looked over at Castiel, hoping for some revelation.

Castiel caught his glance and softly said, "They're projecting images into his head, visions, of a sort. They're trying to destroy him, though I don't know why."

Sam glared at the two other angels as they communicated silently, finally snapping, "You can't be working for God. He's the one who told Cas to save him from hell. There's no way he'd tell you to come and kill him like this."

Raziel's eyes darted in his direction and he corrected gently, "I told you we're not going to kill him, Samuel. Please believe that I wouldn't lie." Sam strained against his bonds again and retorted, "You're torturing him, you bastard. Believing anything you say really isn't at the top of my to do list."

Nitish ignored Sam and said to Raziel, "He's not breaking the way we anticipated, Raziel. He suffered much in hell; he's stronger than we gave him credit for. Emotions and psychology are only going to go so far. We must break him down physically, as well."

Nodding slightly, Raziel spoke with his associate as though Sam and Castiel weren't in the room.

"He's already suffered a substantial head wound. Is that helping or hurting our cause?"

Nitish shrugged a bit, and Sam was struck by how odd a movement it seemed on an angel.

"It's not hindering my work. I believe it may accelerate the process, in fact."

Nodding, Raziel tapped his cane again and said, "Do what must be done, my friend."

Nitish inclined his head slightly and moved back to Dean, unceremoniously pulling him from the floor and dragging him bodily from the living room to a small kitchen in the next room. Sam watched him go, helplessly, and turned his eyes back to Raziel.

"Please, leave him alone! Take me instead," he begged, and the archangel chuckled lightly.

"You have already been broken, Samuel. You have come back whole and renewed. Dean is not as whole as he should be. We will fix this."

* * *

End of Chapter Eight


	9. Chapter 9

Title: He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother: Chapter Nine

Author: Lucky Gun

Disclaimer: Own nothing except for the story concept. All characters and devices within are owned by Eric Kripke. Think it's cause he's so awesome? I think it's cause he's so awesome.

Summary: Dean breaks, shatters into a thousand pieces, and falls to the ground. Sam and Cas try to pick up the pieces and end up cutting themselves in the process.

A/N: Here comes the end. Wait for iittttttt...

* * *

Time passed both too slowly and too quickly for Sam's liking. Held against the wall by tight but not uncomfortable invisible strings, he watched and waited. He could hear nothing from the next room, not a single sound. Fear and anger waged through his mind endlessly, and he wondered what Dean had done to deserve such a fate. Then he wondered if he, himself, was a curse thrust upon his brother from birth. He'd brought their family nothing but sorrow and heartbreak and fear. Was he any different than a burning, festering wound? If left alone he could kill you slowly. If touched, he'd bring nothing but pain and quicker death. So what right did he have to be angry at the angels who were simply doing what he'd done unconsciously his whole life?

Raziel shifted in the wing-back chaired he'd taken as he sensed Sam's shift of mood. He leaned forward, eyes glistening in the dim light from the fireplace, and he stroked his beard gently as he looked over the hunter slowly.

"Why do you blame yourself, Samuel?" he asked, and blinking back a burning in his eyes, Sam found himself answering honestly against his better judgment. "You think I shouldn't? All his life he's tried to protect me and all I can ever do is screw up. He didn't ask for any of this!"

Raziel immediately conceded, "That he didn't. Nor did you. You were both thrust into a world oblivious to its own darkness, your mother's life creating your own future's inevitable framework. She was a hunter, from a family of hunters. She sacrificed something she couldn't yet imagine to a demon who certainly could: your future. And so your blood was tainted, your family was destroyed and broken, your bonds of familiarity and love cast to the four corners of the world."

The unshed tears in his eyes felt like brands against his eyelids, but Sam resolutely held them back and stayed silent, waiting. God's holy scribe must have a point to make, he reasoned.

"So you ask yourself, what did he do to deserve this? What did any of you do to deserve this? Bad luck, a bad hand of fate's cards, a simple spin of the roulette wheel that landed your marble in fear and doubt and misery?" Raziel asked rhetorically, sitting at the edge of the chair, his chin resting against his hands on the top of his cane.

He was silent for a moment, and he cast his eyes to Castiel briefly, as though weighing his options, before he turned his attention back to Sam. The young hunter couldn't help but hang onto every word the angel said; he was a powerful speaker.

"You are not ignored, Samuel. Neither is your brother. You have not been cast into this harsh and cruel underbelly of life without God's good grace. He watches over you, and gives you what you need to survive each day. You and your brother were hand chosen from the beginning of time to fight the evils in the world, to protect those who have no reason to know better. Life is painful, dangerous, and implicitly unpredictable, the life of a hunter even more so. But He knew that you two could survive it, gave you the tools and the means to survive it, and while you will not come through this world unscathed, unencumbered, and uninjured, you must realize that you and your brother are_ never_ unloved."

Sam blinked, a single trickle of hope weeding through his thoughts, and he asked softly, "Then why...Dean?"

Raziel sighed and leaned back again.

"I told you that God gives you what you need to survive this, the tools and the means to complete your work. But life is not unlike a train yard. Every once in awhile, some unfortunately-directed soul throws the wrong switch, a train gets on the wrong track, and it has to be gently pushed back where it should be in the first place."

Sam cast a quizzical eye to Castiel at the analogy, but the slight ghost of a smile on the other angel's face made Sam think he'd heard it before, maybe a few thousand times.

"So you're here to put a train back on the right track. Who's the idiot who threw the switch?"

Raziel gave him a hard look and Sam shrunk back a little, the reproach clear in the old angel's eyes.

"Me. And Ruby."

The gentle smile that followed the harsh look soothed the pain that had already begun to grow in Sam's heart.

"You were misled, young man. Like the Serpent and Eve, you were drawn down the wrong path with a promise of righteousness. But the true path to goodness is a reward unto itself. It is very easy to corrupt good intent with bad advice, as you've experienced."

Sam swallowed hard, a hidden warning in Raziel's voice raising his doubts. Without the lure of demon blood singing through his veins, he found it easy to hear.

"What would I have done? What was she leading me to do?" he whispered, horror and terror welling up within him.

Raziel was compassionate, and he gave him a kind smile.

"Castiel wasn't lying to you, Samuel. You were going to lose your brother. The means and reasons are beyond us now, as they should be. But you would have lost him. And you would have lost yourself. But the Lord intended you to be each others' vanguard into eternity. And we're here to simply correct that. You were shattered and destroyed, and you came back whole. We'd prefer to restrain ourselves from such...severe tactics, but it will be what it will be. And if it comes to it, we will perform such a task, distasteful though it may be."

Sam blinked, whatever thrall the angel had placed on him dissolving a bit, and he picked up on the meaning of his words instantly.

"You're going to kill him? But you said..."

Raziel sighed and cast him a bemused, but patient look.

"I said we would prefer to refrain from such an end, but we shall do as the Lord commands. We must get your brother back, Samuel. Your future and the future of the world depends on it."

There was a handful of heartbeats and half a handful of breaths before there was a small clatter to the side of the room. Castiel and Sam immediately turned their attention, the motion not unlike that of dogs hearing a subsonic whistle, and suddenly, there was Nitish. And he was dragging Dean. It wasn't until he reached the middle of the room and almost reverently placed the man on the carpet by the couch did Sam realize something.

Dean was pale. He was silent. He was still.

He was bloody. He was bruised.

He wasn't breathing.

Nitish cast a sorrowful glance at Raziel and murmured softly, "He was weaker in body than in spirit. He didn't last."

Sam blinked, the rest of the world falling like a curtain from his vision, and warmth fled from his skin. Beside him, Castiel grew suddenly, completely immovable. There was a moment of heavy silence and the bonds holding the two slowly fell away. The reality he faced was incomprehensible, and Sam looked at the angels with fear and terror clear in his eyes.

Raziel sighed deeply and stared at the dead hunter.

"Oh, Dean, my boy," he whispered, and the words he spoke drove Sam to his knees.

Falling heavily, Sam blocked out the rest of the world and crawled slowly to his brother, repeating his actions from just a few, what – minutes? hours? - before. He had eyes for Dean only. He saw sweat-slicked hair, delicate veins crossing his closed eyelids like spiderwebs, cracked lips locked in an expression of frozen neutrality. It was all wrong. Dean was never nonchalant about anything.

Least of all death. Least of all life.

It took moments to reach his brother, though it felt like ages. He knelt next to him silently, staring at his visible wounds, the dried blood caked on his skin, the stained shirts he wore. True thought evaded him, but one idea crushed his spirit.

Was this the more merciful result for his brother?

As he gathered up his brother in his arms, so much like he did that fateful Wednesday (he was faintly surprised it wasn't Tuesday), his thoughts must have played out on his face.

"It is, Samuel. I wish I could say that his suffering is over. But there remains the Reaper," Raziel said softly.

Sam's head snapped up, tears slinging off his skin, and his eyes were wide. He clutched Dean close, possessively, and Castiel said nothing for a moment, choosing his words as he stood guard over his charges.

"She's here, Sam. We must wait."

* * *

Staring at his own dead body, his broken brother, and the three angels that stood watching over them, Dean realized he had seen stranger things.

"No, you haven't."

He turned at the voice, previous memories flashing across his mind, and he gave a ghost of a grin at the woman before him.

"Here to reap me, Tessa?" he asked, glibness absent from his words.

She gave him that soft, knowing smile, and the facade of strength faded. He didn't turn back to the scene behind him, because he could feel it in his soul.

"I used to pray in hell, you know," he offered suddenly, starting at a blank space on the wall, his facial features matching it.

She leaned against the sofa beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth her body projected, but not close enough she touched him. He briefly wondered if he was still covered in blood, but decided it didn't matter. Nitish had been kind. He was broken internally without being touched. He found himself actually thankful. Touch bothered him lately.

Reminded him too much of a cold trigger against his fingertip.

"What did you pray, Dean?"

She sounded like she already knew. She probably did. It had been death, after all.

"I asked for an angel to come for me. Let it be Sammy. Please, God, let it be," he whispered, not bothering to acknowledge the tears that flowed freely down his face.

Pride had no place with death.

She said nothing, but he could feel the stance of the Reaper shift just so.

"You're running out of time, Dean."

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he muttered, "Yeah, yeah. Death or eternity as a spirit. I know the drill."

Warmth grew as she placed a hand on his shoulder. He frowned; that was Castiel's scar. Her palm fit neatly inside the marks. He wondered, strangely, if they'd ever been lovers. Wondered if they could've been.

"Not the same thing here, Dean. You're given a slightly different choice today," she informed breezily, and his frown grew; he used to have death figured out.

Why did even the basics of the world have to change on him?

"What's going on, Tessa? Why all the smoke and mirrors? Why the river, and the gun and...and Sam? What have I done to deserve this?" he asked softly, and for a moment, the world of limbo was calm and surreal.

Her petite face grew slightly pained, however, and he stoically refused to turn around. He didn't need to see his brother's tears. He knew what they felt like. He could almost feel them mingle with his own. Prayed, incessantly, that his brother knew everything he could no longer say.

"You get your choice, Dean. Between life...and death. Simple as that."

This made him blink.

He turned slightly, catching the silent living beings in the corner of his gaze, and he snagged her eyes and held them.

"I get the choice?"

Tessa nodded slightly, and he abruptly realized this wasn't as much as gift as it seemed. Realized she was telling him that silently.

"I won't lie to you, Dean. It gets harder. It gets worse. Things are changing now, and they will not be easier than they were supposed to be," the Reaper said gently, and Dean swallowed hard.

"And Sam?"

That was his focus. It's all his focus could be.

"He'll survive, even if you don't. He'll live, and fight, and learn, and eventually, he'll die. With or without you," she answered, not bothering with the clause of plausible deniability she usually gave him.

Dean finally turned to look back at his brother, stoically refusing to lower his eyes to his own corpse. He saw the fear, the need, the regret. He could almost taste it. Could he do this?

"And if I stay?"

Did he really want to know?

"The same. But trials will be easier. Wounds less painful. The burden will be shared by two, instead of one."

The world was fading before he realized he'd made his choice. He couldn't choose anything else. He knew that. Abruptly, he knew she did as well.

"There wasn't a choice."

Darkness encroached and she stepped backwards, sadness and pride in her gaze.

"There's always the illusion of choice."

He was falling, farther and farther, the floor a million miles beneath him.

Closing his eyes, he murmured, "Crappy illusion."

Her gentle laugh followed him down.

* * *

End of Chapter Nine


	10. Epilogue

Title: He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother: Epilogue

Author: Lucky Gun

Disclaimer: Own nothing except for the story concept. All characters and devices within are owned by Eric Kripke. Think it's cause he's so awesome? I think it's cause he's so awesome.

Summary: Dean breaks, shatters into a thousand pieces, and falls to the ground. Sam and Cas try to pick up the pieces and end up cutting themselves in the process.

A/N: The 'prayer' Dean prayed in heaven, I borrowed from an image I found in a Supernatural Theme app I got from the Google Play store (formerly Android Market). It's a picture of Sam holding dean from the Mystery Spot with the writing above. It was pretty powerful, and it worked well, I think. I don't know who to attribute it to, but it wasn't me! Here's the epilogue. Fun ride, I think. Please leave a review! They make my life flow faster. :)

* * *

The world passed in a strange, wonderful blur. Much like a roller coaster, the landscape shifted quickly, the drops and turns were hard and breathtaking, but the fear was absent. He knew, somehow, that he was safe. Nothing bad was going on. Nothing bad could happen.

And when the landscape stopped shifting, he found himself behind the wheel of the Impala, his brother beside him, the car idling softly on the shoulder of the road. The horizon before them was long and flat, and it was green. He glanced at himself, taking in the button down with the sleeves rolled up, the black tee shirt beneath that, his charm hanging from its place of honor around his neck. He wondered why he thought there should be blood.

Turning to Sam, Dean opened his mouth carefully, aware that, somehow, he'd lost time.

"Did you...miss something?"

The younger hunter's eyes didn't argue. But he still frowned. He seemed to pick and choose his words as he glanced around, confused.

"I think...I think I did. I think we both did. I remember being cold. Before that, not much," he admitted.

Dean nodded slightly and stared straight ahead. Wondered why he thought there should be a bullet hole in his brother's chest.

"How long has it been since I came back from hell?"

Sam blinked hard, doing math that should've been second nature.

"Three months."

There was a flicker in his heart, and Dean asked, "And does the name Ruby mean anything to you?"

A few seconds of heavy silence. Then, Sam's voice came across the ocean of space between them.

"No."

The space shrunk to a car's interior as Dean picked out the emotions in the monosyllabic response.

Puzzled. Confused. Worried.

And abruptly, Dean broke into an easy smile because, he realized, there was nothing to be worried about.

"Good. Now where the hell are we?"

Easier than they could've imagined, they brushed off the episode of lost time and space as they consulted maps, cell phone GPS coordinates, and road signs to determine their location. They drove, then, smiling, laughing, singing, and swearing all the way to Bobby's house (which turned out to be only a hundred miles away). They knew there was fear and tension and death in the world. They knew the weight they carried. But they knew they could carry each other.

They weren't heavy; they were brothers.

Every once in awhile, as the Apocalypse loomed and the brothers fought the evil pouring into the world, there would be slips.

Once, the Colt's trigger against Dean's skin made him inexplicably throw up, tears and bile mingling as fear ate his gut.

Another time, Sam woke up freezing, trembling, screaming that he couldn't move, and Dean's hand had rested gently on his brother's forehead the rest of the night.

Once, the sight of an old man with a cane made both Dean and Sam tingle from head to toe, the hair on the back of their necks standing up.

There was a popular song on the radio that Dean couldn't listen to without going absolutely numb.

They unerringly avoided northern Colorado like the plague, even though they didn't realize it.

Dean worked three solid weeks at an honest job to earn enough money to buy the Impala a new transmission, even though the old one appeared to be fine.

They stayed south when it got really cold, if they could.

They saw a tacky moose lamp in a thrift store and Dean laughed when Sam decided he desperately needed it; it stayed nestled in the trunk of the car in a custom cut foam block, because Sam was determined that it wouldn't break.

And if Castiel seemed a little more at ease around them when they bumped into him later, they didn't say anything. Sometimes things didn't need to be said.

And if Castiel silently watched war-weary angels line up to bask in the warmth that reflected between the brothers' souls, their unconditional love for each other burning brighter than the sun...

Well, he didn't think he could be blamed for saying nothing either.

* * *

Sitting unseen at a corner booth in a cozy heartland diner, two men watched the brothers with devoted interest. Neither hunter was aware of them. They watched as Sam stared hard at a newspaper, divining some meaning from an obituary. They watched as Dean reached over and nonchalantly slit the paper up the center with his steak knife, snatching it from his brother's hands and pointedly making him eat the food in front of him. They watched as Sam rolled his eyes but grinned softly, his little brother instincts kicking in as he listened to his big brother. They watched as Dean returned the smile, ease in his posture, the light in his smile reaching his eyes for the first time in years.

Nitish shifted in his seat and sipped his coffee, his gaze tracking the hunters in the mirror behind his superior. Raziel ran a finger around his cup's lip slowly, his expression serene.

"It was well done, my friend," he said gently, and some invisible tension left Nitish.

He nodded slightly, his eyes still on the brothers.

"Their part in the world is just beginning, isn't it?" he asked, certain he knew the answer.

Raziel sighed lightly, the bone-weary sigh of a midwife after a difficult birthing. He fixed his ancient gaze on his friend and nodded slightly.

"The demon is gone but not forgotten. She no doubt has returned word of Samuel's change of heart to Lilith. Their next move will not be as subtle as it has been. I know what you think to plan, Nitish," Raziel said, holding up a placating hand, "But we cannot bind her to prevent the Apocalypse from occurring. God wills that Castiel, Samuel, and Dean find another way to prevent the breaking of the final seal. We will not be required to intervene...in the very immediate future."

Alarm was obvious on Nitish's otherwise composed face.

"After everything?" he asked in a low tone, and Raziel gave him a warm smile.

"Do not fear, my friend .We shall see them through their darkest days and they shall come out clean and pure. Their trials are by no means simple, but they will survive them. You've grown fond of them?" he asked unnecessarily.

Nitish lowered his eyes in acquiescence, and Raziel's smile widened.

"You shall have the opportunity to work with them in the future," Raziel assured, and they returned to silence as they watched the hunters finish eating, pay the bill, and leave.

Shifting mental stances, Raziel nodded to his companion.

"Come, my boy. We have work to do."

With a flicker of beating wings, they were gone.

* * *

End of He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

Thanks for sticking with this story like you did! I know it was fairly short, but it conveyed a lot of what I think needed to be conveyed after the Ruby storyline screwed up those couple of seasons. They're brothers that have fought supernatural entities since they can remember - I think that there'd be enough trust and love between them that a demon wouldn't be able to sway them as much as she did. Also, it was a really good excuse to write some good angst. :) Thanks again!

Lucky Gun


End file.
